It's been awhile since I posted. For several reasons. I've been busy at work and at home, and I've been in a funk. Not sure any of it has been avoidable, but it's certainly zapped my motivation to write.
One of the things many of us (including me) seem to turn to when we're down in the dumps is comfort food. That would be any food that just makes things better because it's so good and yummy. There are a lot of them. Many of them made better when given the Southern touch. I think I realized how much of an impact these foods carried when I recently went to Denver on businesss. There were 4 of us there, and we went to this very trendy restaurant one night for dinner. Next to the sea bass, arctic char, filet mignon, sushi, and grilled asparagus, in all their glory, were macaroni and cheese, meatloaf, and fried chicken. I threatened to order the fried chicken, just to see if it tasted the same away from home. That restaurant had some simply luscious food, but I can't imagine their fried chicken could hold a candle to my momma's. They did take the prize for the most eclectic menu I've ever seen, though!
What qualifies a food for the category of comfort? Well, there can be no mention of calories or fat grams or carbs. In fact, I'm fairly certain it has to be full of all of those to fit the bill. I'm thinking my famous mashed potatoes....homemade mac and cheese....again, my momma's fried chicken....my melt-in-your mouth meatloaf.....my grandma's warm banana pudding.....chocolate in any shape, form, or fashion.....brownies.
Speaking of brownies. I remember when I was in college. My best friend's boyfriend broke up with her. She was just miserable. So, I made a pan of brownies. We each took a spoon and dove into the pan. Twelve hours and plenty of tears and discussion later, the sun came up, she felt better, and the pan was completely empty.
Oh and I'd better not leave out ice cream. I mean, this stuff has seen me through a multitude of depressions and disappointments. I love Haagen Daz Chocolate Chocolate Chip. But if times are truly tough, nearly any chocolate flavor will do. Ben and Jerry's gets me with New York Super Fudge Chunk and Cherry Garcia. And if there's only vanilla....well, give me some hot fudge and I'm just fine with that, too!
Hardly any of the issues that send us running for the comfort food can actually be solved by it. But it sure does make facing things a little easier. The best part about it is that I know I can find all that food even in Denver. While it might not be cooked with bacon grease or butter....or heck, even a little lard, it's still there if I need it. And now I'm starving! The only question is...which comfort food will fill the bill???
Monday, November 12, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
The Disconnect
Well, this isn't a humorous post. It might not even hold your attention to the end. But sometimes, you just have to talk until you get everything out, you know?
I don't have many friends. It's weird. I pass through people's lives, or maybe I should say they pass through mine. I don't fight with them. Most of them I get along with quite well. For a season. And then, it's like extinguishing a candle. At some point, there's nothing left but a plume of smoke and an acrid smell. And darkness. And I'm alone again. Until the next one cycles through.
Lately, I've felt a real disconnect from some people in my life that I'd call friends. We've become occasional email buddies. I know what happens next. The emails revert to forwarded jokes or chain emails...first with little notes attached...and eventually not even that.
I know it's probably my fault. Maybe it's some kind of personality flaw. Maybe I just have a hard time relating to others. Maybe I withdraw. My husband doesn't like to socialize. He doesn't like for me to do anything without him. So I don't. So there's not much interaction with anyone unless it's at work or through email. That's my life. That's one of the reasons I enjoy my work so much. It's a bigger outlet than anyone could understand.
There are so many people that I remember fondly. That I miss terribly. That I regret losing contact with for whatever reason. Sometimes I think maybe God sends them to me or me to them to meet some need or whatever, and once the mission's accomplished, it's just time to move on. That's just the way it's meant to be. It's very lonely and isolating, though. Sometimes I question why I can't stick it out with a friend over the long haul just once, and I get mad at myself. I hope I've never hurt anyone with the disconnect. I certainly never meant to do so.
There are so many days that I feel like I'm drifting through life on a raft...watching it all slip past me. It's a really rotten feeling. It's those times when I wonder if there's anyone out there that will remember me or that I've had an impact on, the way others have impacted me. Or am I just that nameless face that came and went?
I don't have many friends. It's weird. I pass through people's lives, or maybe I should say they pass through mine. I don't fight with them. Most of them I get along with quite well. For a season. And then, it's like extinguishing a candle. At some point, there's nothing left but a plume of smoke and an acrid smell. And darkness. And I'm alone again. Until the next one cycles through.
Lately, I've felt a real disconnect from some people in my life that I'd call friends. We've become occasional email buddies. I know what happens next. The emails revert to forwarded jokes or chain emails...first with little notes attached...and eventually not even that.
I know it's probably my fault. Maybe it's some kind of personality flaw. Maybe I just have a hard time relating to others. Maybe I withdraw. My husband doesn't like to socialize. He doesn't like for me to do anything without him. So I don't. So there's not much interaction with anyone unless it's at work or through email. That's my life. That's one of the reasons I enjoy my work so much. It's a bigger outlet than anyone could understand.
There are so many people that I remember fondly. That I miss terribly. That I regret losing contact with for whatever reason. Sometimes I think maybe God sends them to me or me to them to meet some need or whatever, and once the mission's accomplished, it's just time to move on. That's just the way it's meant to be. It's very lonely and isolating, though. Sometimes I question why I can't stick it out with a friend over the long haul just once, and I get mad at myself. I hope I've never hurt anyone with the disconnect. I certainly never meant to do so.
There are so many days that I feel like I'm drifting through life on a raft...watching it all slip past me. It's a really rotten feeling. It's those times when I wonder if there's anyone out there that will remember me or that I've had an impact on, the way others have impacted me. Or am I just that nameless face that came and went?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Go West, Southern Girl! Part Two
You can take a Southern Belle out of the South, but be certain that drawl will follow her everywhere! That's one accent we didn't hear from anyone else during our trip.
There is so much to see and do in San Francisco. It's very much geared to the outdoor life, and so beautiful. I wish we'd had more time to take in the sights, but we did what we could with the little time we had. Heck, we even went to the conference that was the reason for our trip!
Have you been on a cable car? Well, we never had, and we were determined to try it out. We just didn't know how you even begin to board one or pay for the ticket. So, we approached 3 ladies that were waiting at a stop. They were locals, and they explained to us that when a car stops, you look for an empty spot and jump on. Then you pay the man when he asks you for your ticket. $5 a ride. Sounded simple enough. So we waited. The car pulled up and it was bursting at the seams with people, but those 3 ladies went toward it, so we did, too. The man said at first that there were 3 spots. We saw the ladies disappear, and began to turn back toward the curb. The man on the car proceeded to yell at us to come back. Guess 3 really translates to 6 somehow. Now, the cars have seats, and they have poles to hold onto. The seats in the front of the car face out to the sides. So, if you get onto the side of the car and hold onto a pole, you are essentially right in the face of the person sitting in the seat. I found myself up close and personal with a lady who only spoke German. It was quite uncomfortable, as both of us were having our personal space invaded and this clanging car was rumbling up the hills with the cold wind blowing over us. But we smiled at one another anyhow.
My fellow travellers found spots on the other side of the car. They stood in the personal space of a local couple. The man told them that they seldom asked pretty girls to pay for a ticket. I had my money in my hand. But the thing about it was that the cable car operator disembarked midway through our ride, and another man took his place. So we were able to stop at Lombard St., the most crooked street ever, and didn't have to pay. I heard the story then from the girls. Being the person that I am, I kept my money securely in my hand. When we got on another car, my co-workers were clearly upset and incredulous when we were asked for our tickets. I dutifully handed my money over. They dug theirs out of their purses, and then they fussed about it for the rest of the trip. The nerve of him to ask them to pay!
I thought it was funny. I didn't say anything, but laughed to myself. The fact that they were so disgusted that they had to actually pay for public transportation wasn't the best part...it was that they were upset that this guy apparently didn't think they were pretty! So I got to hear all their perceived faults as they commiserated. I thought to myself what an odd thing that was, how different we were. I was just thankful that I got that first trip on the house!
The best thing about the cable car was watching them manually turn it on a large wooden turntable at the end of the line, so that it could go in the opposite direction. Everyone has to get off the car for them to turn it. Guess what that means? You get to pay again to ride back the way you just came! Oh, but you can pay $11 and ride all day. Or...you can build your gluteus muscles and try to walk up and down all those hills on your own! Not many fat people, I noticed! There were buses and taxis also, but you just have to experience the sardine effect of the cable car to appreciate it. How they ever actually manage to get to the top of the hills with all those people on board is a feat in itself. How no one manages to get knocked off and killed when two cars pass each other is beyond me.
My best advice if you just have to give it a try...make the attempt to get one of the seats. It's a much safer feeling than standing on the side of the car. And take a shower before you board....and pray that everyone else did the same!
There is so much to see and do in San Francisco. It's very much geared to the outdoor life, and so beautiful. I wish we'd had more time to take in the sights, but we did what we could with the little time we had. Heck, we even went to the conference that was the reason for our trip!
Have you been on a cable car? Well, we never had, and we were determined to try it out. We just didn't know how you even begin to board one or pay for the ticket. So, we approached 3 ladies that were waiting at a stop. They were locals, and they explained to us that when a car stops, you look for an empty spot and jump on. Then you pay the man when he asks you for your ticket. $5 a ride. Sounded simple enough. So we waited. The car pulled up and it was bursting at the seams with people, but those 3 ladies went toward it, so we did, too. The man said at first that there were 3 spots. We saw the ladies disappear, and began to turn back toward the curb. The man on the car proceeded to yell at us to come back. Guess 3 really translates to 6 somehow. Now, the cars have seats, and they have poles to hold onto. The seats in the front of the car face out to the sides. So, if you get onto the side of the car and hold onto a pole, you are essentially right in the face of the person sitting in the seat. I found myself up close and personal with a lady who only spoke German. It was quite uncomfortable, as both of us were having our personal space invaded and this clanging car was rumbling up the hills with the cold wind blowing over us. But we smiled at one another anyhow.
My fellow travellers found spots on the other side of the car. They stood in the personal space of a local couple. The man told them that they seldom asked pretty girls to pay for a ticket. I had my money in my hand. But the thing about it was that the cable car operator disembarked midway through our ride, and another man took his place. So we were able to stop at Lombard St., the most crooked street ever, and didn't have to pay. I heard the story then from the girls. Being the person that I am, I kept my money securely in my hand. When we got on another car, my co-workers were clearly upset and incredulous when we were asked for our tickets. I dutifully handed my money over. They dug theirs out of their purses, and then they fussed about it for the rest of the trip. The nerve of him to ask them to pay!
I thought it was funny. I didn't say anything, but laughed to myself. The fact that they were so disgusted that they had to actually pay for public transportation wasn't the best part...it was that they were upset that this guy apparently didn't think they were pretty! So I got to hear all their perceived faults as they commiserated. I thought to myself what an odd thing that was, how different we were. I was just thankful that I got that first trip on the house!
The best thing about the cable car was watching them manually turn it on a large wooden turntable at the end of the line, so that it could go in the opposite direction. Everyone has to get off the car for them to turn it. Guess what that means? You get to pay again to ride back the way you just came! Oh, but you can pay $11 and ride all day. Or...you can build your gluteus muscles and try to walk up and down all those hills on your own! Not many fat people, I noticed! There were buses and taxis also, but you just have to experience the sardine effect of the cable car to appreciate it. How they ever actually manage to get to the top of the hills with all those people on board is a feat in itself. How no one manages to get knocked off and killed when two cars pass each other is beyond me.
My best advice if you just have to give it a try...make the attempt to get one of the seats. It's a much safer feeling than standing on the side of the car. And take a shower before you board....and pray that everyone else did the same!
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Go West, Southern Girl! Part One
I must begin this post with a confession. Travel is not one of my strong suits. I adore the travel channel because it's the closest thing I get to a vacation. There are many reasons for this. I'm a workaholic. Big time. I'm the mother of a toddler who loves his routine. Big time. I'm married to a man that doesn't particularly like to do the tourist thing, and our ideas of vacation couldn't be more opposite. One of the downsides to our relationship. But I digress.
This past week, I got the opportunity to attend a conference for work. I went to San Francisco. My first ever trip to California. I was only there for 3 days, but I gathered a lot of blogging material!
I caught a cold right before I left town. Nothing major, just a general nuisance. I made a very painful discovery, though. When an airplane descends from its cruising altitude, havoc is wreaked on already swollen and painful sinuses. A searing, sharp, intense pain cut down my face and neck on four different occasions as I made my way there and back home again. Good times. I've been home for 3 days, and my ears are still popping and crackling as though Rice Krispies have set up housekeeping in their canals.
I also learned the meaning of jet lag. I traveled across 3 times zones. I know it's child's play for many people, but you have to remember I've never done this. I arrived home at 9pm Thursday night, and I had a to be at a meeting in Kentucky (an hour and fifteen minutes from my house) at 7am Friday morning. It is now Sunday. I still haven't recovered. Well, there is the little matter of the cold, and another female inconvenience that I will not elaborate on, as it's unladylike enough that I even mentioned it all. I'm one tired belle!
I saw some really amazing things, though, and I'm glad I had the opportunity to go. I was there with two of my co-workers. They're from Georgia. Three Southern girls out on their own! I will elaborate further in additional posts to come.
As for San Francisco, I made a little game of identifying jobs that would guarantee you could make a living there, based on my observations. In no particular order, here they are:
1. Hairstylist. It gets way windy there! The three of us had what we thought were wind-defying hairsprays in our arsenals, but not one of them survived the streets of San Fran!
2. Brake mechanic. Hills of the roller-coaster variety lend themselves to some cars in need of frequent brake jobs.
3. Orthopedic surgeon. Walking those hills are hard on the knees. And a lot of people are walking there. Knee replacement, anyone?
4. Back pack sales. Seemed like all the locals carried one. Why? It's warm in the morning, and windy and chilly at night. Hence the need to carry a coat and a place to put it as you traverse the roller coaster hills.
5. Coat and scarf sales. Something us Southern folk rarely need and I really didn't expect to be so popular on the west coast. But that October wind is really cold!
This isn't the best of the Go West posts, but I had to start somewhere. Stick around because the best is yet to come!
This past week, I got the opportunity to attend a conference for work. I went to San Francisco. My first ever trip to California. I was only there for 3 days, but I gathered a lot of blogging material!
I caught a cold right before I left town. Nothing major, just a general nuisance. I made a very painful discovery, though. When an airplane descends from its cruising altitude, havoc is wreaked on already swollen and painful sinuses. A searing, sharp, intense pain cut down my face and neck on four different occasions as I made my way there and back home again. Good times. I've been home for 3 days, and my ears are still popping and crackling as though Rice Krispies have set up housekeeping in their canals.
I also learned the meaning of jet lag. I traveled across 3 times zones. I know it's child's play for many people, but you have to remember I've never done this. I arrived home at 9pm Thursday night, and I had a to be at a meeting in Kentucky (an hour and fifteen minutes from my house) at 7am Friday morning. It is now Sunday. I still haven't recovered. Well, there is the little matter of the cold, and another female inconvenience that I will not elaborate on, as it's unladylike enough that I even mentioned it all. I'm one tired belle!
I saw some really amazing things, though, and I'm glad I had the opportunity to go. I was there with two of my co-workers. They're from Georgia. Three Southern girls out on their own! I will elaborate further in additional posts to come.
As for San Francisco, I made a little game of identifying jobs that would guarantee you could make a living there, based on my observations. In no particular order, here they are:
1. Hairstylist. It gets way windy there! The three of us had what we thought were wind-defying hairsprays in our arsenals, but not one of them survived the streets of San Fran!
2. Brake mechanic. Hills of the roller-coaster variety lend themselves to some cars in need of frequent brake jobs.
3. Orthopedic surgeon. Walking those hills are hard on the knees. And a lot of people are walking there. Knee replacement, anyone?
4. Back pack sales. Seemed like all the locals carried one. Why? It's warm in the morning, and windy and chilly at night. Hence the need to carry a coat and a place to put it as you traverse the roller coaster hills.
5. Coat and scarf sales. Something us Southern folk rarely need and I really didn't expect to be so popular on the west coast. But that October wind is really cold!
This isn't the best of the Go West posts, but I had to start somewhere. Stick around because the best is yet to come!
Monday, September 24, 2007
It Doesn't Take Much....
Finish that sentence however you like. To amuse me. To please me. To make me smile. To send me off into a daydream. Doesn't really matter how you finish it. It's really the beginning of the sentence that makes the whole point. It just doesn't take much.
I know. You're thinking, "What a profound statement!" And it really is, to tell the truth. It occurred to me this morning as I was driving. I found myself behind a car with a vanity plate. Those are a love/hate thing for me. I've always thought it was silly to pay extra money for something you never get to see, but I guess it's important for some people to make statements to the rest of the drivers out there. A way to define who they are and what's important to them. I don't know why, but today, this one got me. It was a green Audi. I had my mind on a million different things, and the iPod was blaring. As I got closer to the car, I saw it. "AUDI U DO." It's the first time I've ever laughed out loud at a vanity plate. There was just something about it. It wasn't narcissistic. It didn't boast about what the driver does or doesn't have. It didn't threaten or intimidate.
I have been under quite a bit of stress lately for various reasons. This morning, with that laugh, I felt completely relaxed for the first time since I took that trip to New England. That's when it hit me. It doesn't take much. Just a clever little license plate. So why is it so difficult? So elusive? If it doesn't take much, why is it that all of us struggle so much to find it?
It's an interesting point to ponder. But then, you see how I am. It doesn't take much....
I know. You're thinking, "What a profound statement!" And it really is, to tell the truth. It occurred to me this morning as I was driving. I found myself behind a car with a vanity plate. Those are a love/hate thing for me. I've always thought it was silly to pay extra money for something you never get to see, but I guess it's important for some people to make statements to the rest of the drivers out there. A way to define who they are and what's important to them. I don't know why, but today, this one got me. It was a green Audi. I had my mind on a million different things, and the iPod was blaring. As I got closer to the car, I saw it. "AUDI U DO." It's the first time I've ever laughed out loud at a vanity plate. There was just something about it. It wasn't narcissistic. It didn't boast about what the driver does or doesn't have. It didn't threaten or intimidate.
I have been under quite a bit of stress lately for various reasons. This morning, with that laugh, I felt completely relaxed for the first time since I took that trip to New England. That's when it hit me. It doesn't take much. Just a clever little license plate. So why is it so difficult? So elusive? If it doesn't take much, why is it that all of us struggle so much to find it?
It's an interesting point to ponder. But then, you see how I am. It doesn't take much....
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Curiosities
There are things in life that just make you go, "huh?" And the last couple of days, I've been thinking about some of them. I figure, why should I contemplate all by myself?
So at work we have these water-saver toilets. They hold so little water in the bowl, that if the toilet paper isn't aimed just right, it won't go down when flushed. The women's bathroom closest to my office has 6 stalls in it. It's like a symphony of flushing when you go in there. Nobody wants to leave anything behind, so to speak. First flush is rarely successful. So there's multiple tries. You have to love this. Now, I'm thinking two things. First, whoever said these toilets will save money is nothing short of crazy! Give me an old-fashioned toilet that holds like 20 gallons of water and creates a waterspout when you flush. Everything goes down first time, every time. And I bet in the end it doesn't cost any more money. The second thing, all that extra time spent flushing cuts down on productivity...think about it. Heck, you could write a blog paragraph in the time you spend in the bathroom! ;-)
My other point to ponder....toilet paper. The kind you can see through that you find in every public restroom and every employer's restroom in the country. Clearly not invented or purchased by a female. Minimally functional at best, you use 2-3 times as much to get the proverbial job done. Which only serves to exacerbate the aforementioned flushing dilemma!
I think about things other than bathroom matters, though. Like the HOV lane. Nice concept that doesn't translate very well. Every morning, I'm driving to work watching hundreds of solo drivers pass me in the HOV lane. Why? Because I think around 90% of us on the road are out there by ourselves. Why waste a perfectly good and wide-open lane of pavement like that? It's just too tempting to resist! Even, I have to admit, for me!
Then, there's the whole elevator etiquette issue. Does it make sense to try to get into an elevator when those inside are trying to get out? And do we really have to all look down at the floor or up at the floor numbers for the whole ride? Do you try to make pleasant conversation, or just pretend to be deep in thought? I prefer a polite smile and a silent ride, myself.
That's just the few things I'm thinking about these last few days. There'll be more later, I'm sure!
So at work we have these water-saver toilets. They hold so little water in the bowl, that if the toilet paper isn't aimed just right, it won't go down when flushed. The women's bathroom closest to my office has 6 stalls in it. It's like a symphony of flushing when you go in there. Nobody wants to leave anything behind, so to speak. First flush is rarely successful. So there's multiple tries. You have to love this. Now, I'm thinking two things. First, whoever said these toilets will save money is nothing short of crazy! Give me an old-fashioned toilet that holds like 20 gallons of water and creates a waterspout when you flush. Everything goes down first time, every time. And I bet in the end it doesn't cost any more money. The second thing, all that extra time spent flushing cuts down on productivity...think about it. Heck, you could write a blog paragraph in the time you spend in the bathroom! ;-)
My other point to ponder....toilet paper. The kind you can see through that you find in every public restroom and every employer's restroom in the country. Clearly not invented or purchased by a female. Minimally functional at best, you use 2-3 times as much to get the proverbial job done. Which only serves to exacerbate the aforementioned flushing dilemma!
I think about things other than bathroom matters, though. Like the HOV lane. Nice concept that doesn't translate very well. Every morning, I'm driving to work watching hundreds of solo drivers pass me in the HOV lane. Why? Because I think around 90% of us on the road are out there by ourselves. Why waste a perfectly good and wide-open lane of pavement like that? It's just too tempting to resist! Even, I have to admit, for me!
Then, there's the whole elevator etiquette issue. Does it make sense to try to get into an elevator when those inside are trying to get out? And do we really have to all look down at the floor or up at the floor numbers for the whole ride? Do you try to make pleasant conversation, or just pretend to be deep in thought? I prefer a polite smile and a silent ride, myself.
That's just the few things I'm thinking about these last few days. There'll be more later, I'm sure!
Monday, September 17, 2007
Flirtin' With Disaster
The topic of this blog came from the inside of a Dove candy wrapper. Did I mention I love chocolate? Well, I opened one up and on the inside they have these little messages, and it said, "flirting is mandatory." I have to say that this is very true, even for a southern lady. Or should I say, particularly for a southern lady.
I'm not talking about the full-on, robust, and sometimes bordering on raunchy kind of flirtation. The in-your-face stuff is simply not appropriate. No, the proper way to flirt...the ladylike way...is to be very subtle...the ultimate coquette. Most women have an innate ability to do this. Some of us hone the skill over time. We watch and learn from the women around us. This is not always a good thing.
I never realized how good I was at it until one fateful day at church. Yes, at church. This is not one of the finer moments in my life, and may change how some who read this see me. But alas, it happened.
It was a very small church without many singles in it. I was very active, singing in the choir, working with vacation Bible school, and teaching Sunday School for the college kids. And I was single. Now, you have to understand that I don't have a very good self-esteem. To think that any man could be interested in me "that way" was just absolutely ridiculous to me at the time. I was on some of the church committees and spent a bit of time with several of the men in our church, especially the pastor. We all got along very well.
One night, after choir practice and before church started, the pastor's wife asked me if she could speak to me in private. I thought she was going to ask me to help her with something, perhaps babysit her children as I had done in the past. But no. She had to tell me that it bothered her immensely to see me sitting up there in the choir behind her husband. That she thought I was trolling for him. That she didn't like this and wanted me to stop.
I sat there listening to her and I cannot tell you how astonished I was. I tried to put my finger on exactly what she could be getting at. I didn't want her husband. In fact, my first thought was "EWWWWW!!!" The hurt I felt that she could be thinking this was beyond comprehension. I apologized to her profusely, and I quit the choir that day. I left that church soon after. I just couldn't figure out how it got to that point, and I was afraid it might escalate in her mind.
What that encounter taught me is that it's easy for me to flirt, maybe even when I don't intend to do so. I've become very sensitive to this ever since. Because I know that I turn on the charm when I want something. I'm no sex kitten. So the fact that this could be such a powerful tool in my arsenal astounds me. And it scares me that I might utilize it without even thinking or intending to do so. It's that innate, I suppose.
A friend once told me that my voice perpetuates this problem. It's a little low and smooth, sort of in the Kathleen Turner department. The "$4.95 a minute" voice. If I want to, I can drop it down a notch and make it sound very inviting. So, I have to mind that, too.
It's an amazing thing, how women have these tools. How we just know to use them and quickly learn how they benefit us. Bless our hearts, we almost can't help ourselves! Because even ogres like me can work it sometimes!
I'm not talking about the full-on, robust, and sometimes bordering on raunchy kind of flirtation. The in-your-face stuff is simply not appropriate. No, the proper way to flirt...the ladylike way...is to be very subtle...the ultimate coquette. Most women have an innate ability to do this. Some of us hone the skill over time. We watch and learn from the women around us. This is not always a good thing.
I never realized how good I was at it until one fateful day at church. Yes, at church. This is not one of the finer moments in my life, and may change how some who read this see me. But alas, it happened.
It was a very small church without many singles in it. I was very active, singing in the choir, working with vacation Bible school, and teaching Sunday School for the college kids. And I was single. Now, you have to understand that I don't have a very good self-esteem. To think that any man could be interested in me "that way" was just absolutely ridiculous to me at the time. I was on some of the church committees and spent a bit of time with several of the men in our church, especially the pastor. We all got along very well.
One night, after choir practice and before church started, the pastor's wife asked me if she could speak to me in private. I thought she was going to ask me to help her with something, perhaps babysit her children as I had done in the past. But no. She had to tell me that it bothered her immensely to see me sitting up there in the choir behind her husband. That she thought I was trolling for him. That she didn't like this and wanted me to stop.
I sat there listening to her and I cannot tell you how astonished I was. I tried to put my finger on exactly what she could be getting at. I didn't want her husband. In fact, my first thought was "EWWWWW!!!" The hurt I felt that she could be thinking this was beyond comprehension. I apologized to her profusely, and I quit the choir that day. I left that church soon after. I just couldn't figure out how it got to that point, and I was afraid it might escalate in her mind.
What that encounter taught me is that it's easy for me to flirt, maybe even when I don't intend to do so. I've become very sensitive to this ever since. Because I know that I turn on the charm when I want something. I'm no sex kitten. So the fact that this could be such a powerful tool in my arsenal astounds me. And it scares me that I might utilize it without even thinking or intending to do so. It's that innate, I suppose.
A friend once told me that my voice perpetuates this problem. It's a little low and smooth, sort of in the Kathleen Turner department. The "$4.95 a minute" voice. If I want to, I can drop it down a notch and make it sound very inviting. So, I have to mind that, too.
It's an amazing thing, how women have these tools. How we just know to use them and quickly learn how they benefit us. Bless our hearts, we almost can't help ourselves! Because even ogres like me can work it sometimes!
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Joy
There are so many ways and reasons to get aggravated with this world and everything in it. I have identified a great many of those ways and reasons. Joyful events are a welcome diversion, and I try not to take them for granted.
My son provides me with nearly all of my joyful events. He doesn't even have to make an effort, because his existence is really all it takes. There are some highlights, though, that I think about when I'm having a really bad day.
I love his laugh. That sweet, infectious laugh that's often accompanied by a high-pitched squeal. It's so pure and happy. Watching him laugh is even better, because he's got these great dimples and his eyes sparkle. I fall in love with him all over again.
One of my favorite joys happened just this past weekend. We were putting him to bed, and we've been trying hard to get him to tell us goodnight. Sometimes he'll do it, and sometimes he just refuses. Saturday night, he looked up at us as he snuggled under the covers and said, "Goodnight, Mommy. Goodnight, Daddy. I love you." My heart melted. You never want to admit it to your kids, but it's times like these that they could ask for the moon and you wouldn't say no for anything. His speech was delayed due to his heart surgery and frequent ear infections that prevented him from hearing speech normally. It's slow progress, but we work with him, and he's doing better every day. I keep hearing him say those words, and it's better than chocolate. Now, anybody that knows me knows this is monumental. Because I would have sworn that such a thing wasn't possible. My husband has certainly never achieved this status, bless his heart!
The other great joy that Brock gives me is when I come in the door from work. Now, everybody talks about that unconditional love a dog gives you. How they can meet you at the door with tail wagging and just be so happy to see you, even if you only left 5 minutes ago. Well, that doesn't hold a candle to what I get from him. It doesn't matter what he's doing or holding, when he sees me, it's dropped and forgotten. He goes into a full-on run, exclaiming, "Mommy! Mommy!" over and over again until he actually reaches me. At that point, he throws himself against me and holds on for dear life. If I pick him up, he squeezes me and kisses me. I swear, heaven must feel something like this. The only thing better than that is that it happens again the very next time I walk in.
I also love it when he takes my hand. He will do this when he wants me to come play with him, or when he wants me to go into another room. The feel of his hand in mine is just the best.
I've done something from the time he was born. I like to stroke his cheek. At first, it was with just one finger, but now he's big enough that I can use my hand. The coolest part about it...he does it back to me. Just the same way. He looks into my eyes and is just so gentle. I think to myself that he clearly feels the same way I do about this gesture. He gives back all the love that I give him every time I do it.
I guess you can tell that I really love my son. It's impossible to describe it to anyone that doesn't have children. It's like when the Grinch's heart grew. Mine just expanded the day I found out I was going to have him, and it hasn't stopped growing since. I love him unconditionally and completely. And everyone keeps telling me to remember these moments when he is a teenager. Which is one of the reasons that I'm writing it now. Because I don't ever want to forget this kind of joy.
My son provides me with nearly all of my joyful events. He doesn't even have to make an effort, because his existence is really all it takes. There are some highlights, though, that I think about when I'm having a really bad day.
I love his laugh. That sweet, infectious laugh that's often accompanied by a high-pitched squeal. It's so pure and happy. Watching him laugh is even better, because he's got these great dimples and his eyes sparkle. I fall in love with him all over again.
One of my favorite joys happened just this past weekend. We were putting him to bed, and we've been trying hard to get him to tell us goodnight. Sometimes he'll do it, and sometimes he just refuses. Saturday night, he looked up at us as he snuggled under the covers and said, "Goodnight, Mommy. Goodnight, Daddy. I love you." My heart melted. You never want to admit it to your kids, but it's times like these that they could ask for the moon and you wouldn't say no for anything. His speech was delayed due to his heart surgery and frequent ear infections that prevented him from hearing speech normally. It's slow progress, but we work with him, and he's doing better every day. I keep hearing him say those words, and it's better than chocolate. Now, anybody that knows me knows this is monumental. Because I would have sworn that such a thing wasn't possible. My husband has certainly never achieved this status, bless his heart!
The other great joy that Brock gives me is when I come in the door from work. Now, everybody talks about that unconditional love a dog gives you. How they can meet you at the door with tail wagging and just be so happy to see you, even if you only left 5 minutes ago. Well, that doesn't hold a candle to what I get from him. It doesn't matter what he's doing or holding, when he sees me, it's dropped and forgotten. He goes into a full-on run, exclaiming, "Mommy! Mommy!" over and over again until he actually reaches me. At that point, he throws himself against me and holds on for dear life. If I pick him up, he squeezes me and kisses me. I swear, heaven must feel something like this. The only thing better than that is that it happens again the very next time I walk in.
I also love it when he takes my hand. He will do this when he wants me to come play with him, or when he wants me to go into another room. The feel of his hand in mine is just the best.
I've done something from the time he was born. I like to stroke his cheek. At first, it was with just one finger, but now he's big enough that I can use my hand. The coolest part about it...he does it back to me. Just the same way. He looks into my eyes and is just so gentle. I think to myself that he clearly feels the same way I do about this gesture. He gives back all the love that I give him every time I do it.
I guess you can tell that I really love my son. It's impossible to describe it to anyone that doesn't have children. It's like when the Grinch's heart grew. Mine just expanded the day I found out I was going to have him, and it hasn't stopped growing since. I love him unconditionally and completely. And everyone keeps telling me to remember these moments when he is a teenager. Which is one of the reasons that I'm writing it now. Because I don't ever want to forget this kind of joy.
Friday, August 24, 2007
A Married Couple's Guide to Shopping
This is not your typical discourse on shopping. Because my husband and I are exactly the opposite of the stereotype. Which is what makes it interesting blog material, right?
So, my husband likes to shop. I hate it. That's putting it mildly. It would be better to say that I loathe it. I'm not sure why. I hate trying on things, especially when they don't fit because I feel like I wasted my time and messed up my hair for nothing. I have never been really trendy, so the styles in the windows really don't get my attention. It just doesn't appeal to me. Same thing with grocery shopping. I hate that because you have to load up the cart, then you have to unload it at checkout. Then you have to haul it all home and put it away. Then...you have to cook it. And then you have to do it all over again.
I have a friend that has great taste in clothes. When I need to go shopping, I call her up. I tell her what I need and how much I want to spend. We go out, and she starts handing me things. She knows what size I wear, and she has a really great eye and knows what looks good on me. She's also good at mixing and matching, and wardrobe building. I love her. I don't even have to think about it. It doesn't take much time. She likes doing it. What more could you ask for?
They built Lowe's and The Home Depot for my husband. Trust me on this. Now, where we live, both of these stores happen to be right across the street from each other. The man could spend days in one store or the other, but having them in such close proximity creates a whole other dilemma. Because now he has to compare prices. So, he goes to one store and shops for whatever he's interested in. Then, he leaves and goes across the street to see if they might have it cheaper. If they don't, and if they won't beat the price of the other store, then he gets back in the car to go to the first place and buy the item. Add in the time it takes to browse the aisles of both stores, and you pretty much waste an entire day. Often, he will ask me to accompany him on such adventures. This is a huge mistake. I don't have the patience for such excursions. Remember my previous post about when momma ain't happy ain't nobody happy? Exactly.
He likes to chat with the salespeople. He does learn a lot from them. From time to time, he'll get extra discounts by being friendly with them. That's very shrewd. What I have learned, though, is that any project he attempts to do will take at least twice as long as he estimates it will take for reasons just such as this. So, my business-oriented mind generates that you lose any savings you gain at the store in the time that you spend. It's about efficiency and productivity.
So, you see, we are not your typical married couple. He doesn't drive me to the mall and wait in the car while I browse for hours on end. I can't trust him to go out to buy a couple of items and be back before the sun sets. Which begs the question...why in the world do opposites attract? It leads to a lot of aggravation!
So, my husband likes to shop. I hate it. That's putting it mildly. It would be better to say that I loathe it. I'm not sure why. I hate trying on things, especially when they don't fit because I feel like I wasted my time and messed up my hair for nothing. I have never been really trendy, so the styles in the windows really don't get my attention. It just doesn't appeal to me. Same thing with grocery shopping. I hate that because you have to load up the cart, then you have to unload it at checkout. Then you have to haul it all home and put it away. Then...you have to cook it. And then you have to do it all over again.
I have a friend that has great taste in clothes. When I need to go shopping, I call her up. I tell her what I need and how much I want to spend. We go out, and she starts handing me things. She knows what size I wear, and she has a really great eye and knows what looks good on me. She's also good at mixing and matching, and wardrobe building. I love her. I don't even have to think about it. It doesn't take much time. She likes doing it. What more could you ask for?
They built Lowe's and The Home Depot for my husband. Trust me on this. Now, where we live, both of these stores happen to be right across the street from each other. The man could spend days in one store or the other, but having them in such close proximity creates a whole other dilemma. Because now he has to compare prices. So, he goes to one store and shops for whatever he's interested in. Then, he leaves and goes across the street to see if they might have it cheaper. If they don't, and if they won't beat the price of the other store, then he gets back in the car to go to the first place and buy the item. Add in the time it takes to browse the aisles of both stores, and you pretty much waste an entire day. Often, he will ask me to accompany him on such adventures. This is a huge mistake. I don't have the patience for such excursions. Remember my previous post about when momma ain't happy ain't nobody happy? Exactly.
He likes to chat with the salespeople. He does learn a lot from them. From time to time, he'll get extra discounts by being friendly with them. That's very shrewd. What I have learned, though, is that any project he attempts to do will take at least twice as long as he estimates it will take for reasons just such as this. So, my business-oriented mind generates that you lose any savings you gain at the store in the time that you spend. It's about efficiency and productivity.
So, you see, we are not your typical married couple. He doesn't drive me to the mall and wait in the car while I browse for hours on end. I can't trust him to go out to buy a couple of items and be back before the sun sets. Which begs the question...why in the world do opposites attract? It leads to a lot of aggravation!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Pardon me
I have a cold. It is damn near impossible to remain lady-like when your nose is constantly running. I think about Scarlett O'Hara, and how glad I am that I don't have to carry around the hanky AND the parasol!
So, missing work is not an option. Yeah, I know I'm sharing the germs, but I've already got it, so what do I care? Yeah, I know I'm a nurse and that last sentence was just wrong, but hey, I don't feel good and it's the truth. So there. I'm not taking care of patients, and I'm not at the hospital. No public health crisis will result from me going to work with the sniffles. Besides, I use gallons of that hand sanitizer...I wash my hands all the time as if I'm scrubbing in to surgery. I won't touch bathroom door handles or elevator buttons with my fingertips, and I never drink from a public water fountain. I think it's completely fair that I should be ticked off that after taking all those precautions, I still get sick!
Last night, I went home from work and I just felt miserable. I do not like to take medications of any kind, because I don't like experiencing side effects. And for some reason, I seem to be hypersensitive to nearly everything. So, whenever I need an anesthetic, everybody refuses to believe me when I tell them it doesn't take much to put me under. But, really, how many people out there would even tell you that? Last night, I had nothing in the house except NyQuil, my husband's cold medicine. I could've sent him out for something else, but I didn't feel good enough to supervise my son while he went shopping. Because the man can't just go and pick up something and come right back. Nope. A trip like that would take him at least an hour. He likes to look around. I know...most men aren't like that. And most women aren't like me...I hate to shop! But that's another blog...
So, I take the NyQuil at his urging. Because he feels sorry for me. I think there must've been something on tv he wanted to watch. I took it right before dinner. By 8:15, I was sound asleep in an upright position on the sofa! With my son running around like a little maniac. I kept trying to open my eyes, and they felt like lead. So, my loving husband helped me up the stairs and put me to bed. I can imagine him on the other side of the bedroom door, dancing a jig. He put our son to bed. He walked our dogs. He cleaned up the dinner dishes. Maybe I'll start taking NyQuil every night....
I woke up this morning, and it was like peering through dense fog. I couldn't focus my eyes and I felt light-headed. Great. A hangover from the medicine. It is afternoon as I sit here and type this, and it's only the last hour or so that I've finally started to feel lucid again. My nose, however, has been active all day. Lucky me. So the challenge is to stay all sweet and polite while feeling like I've been hit by a truck. I catch myself saying "pardon me" constantly during times like this. Pardon me that I look like a mess and feel even worse than that. Pardon me that I can't seem to control this thing on my face. Pardon me that you can't understand much of what I'm saying. Pardon me that my throat feels really sore and scratchy and my voice sounds like a teenage boy's.
Pardon me that in only a matter of days, my son, my husband, or both of them will be stricken with this and then I will have to take care of them whether I'm feeling better by then or not. Yes, I'm bitter about that. When I'm sick, I just want to be left alone. They need loads of attention. I don't get that. Oh, but pardon me....
So, missing work is not an option. Yeah, I know I'm sharing the germs, but I've already got it, so what do I care? Yeah, I know I'm a nurse and that last sentence was just wrong, but hey, I don't feel good and it's the truth. So there. I'm not taking care of patients, and I'm not at the hospital. No public health crisis will result from me going to work with the sniffles. Besides, I use gallons of that hand sanitizer...I wash my hands all the time as if I'm scrubbing in to surgery. I won't touch bathroom door handles or elevator buttons with my fingertips, and I never drink from a public water fountain. I think it's completely fair that I should be ticked off that after taking all those precautions, I still get sick!
Last night, I went home from work and I just felt miserable. I do not like to take medications of any kind, because I don't like experiencing side effects. And for some reason, I seem to be hypersensitive to nearly everything. So, whenever I need an anesthetic, everybody refuses to believe me when I tell them it doesn't take much to put me under. But, really, how many people out there would even tell you that? Last night, I had nothing in the house except NyQuil, my husband's cold medicine. I could've sent him out for something else, but I didn't feel good enough to supervise my son while he went shopping. Because the man can't just go and pick up something and come right back. Nope. A trip like that would take him at least an hour. He likes to look around. I know...most men aren't like that. And most women aren't like me...I hate to shop! But that's another blog...
So, I take the NyQuil at his urging. Because he feels sorry for me. I think there must've been something on tv he wanted to watch. I took it right before dinner. By 8:15, I was sound asleep in an upright position on the sofa! With my son running around like a little maniac. I kept trying to open my eyes, and they felt like lead. So, my loving husband helped me up the stairs and put me to bed. I can imagine him on the other side of the bedroom door, dancing a jig. He put our son to bed. He walked our dogs. He cleaned up the dinner dishes. Maybe I'll start taking NyQuil every night....
I woke up this morning, and it was like peering through dense fog. I couldn't focus my eyes and I felt light-headed. Great. A hangover from the medicine. It is afternoon as I sit here and type this, and it's only the last hour or so that I've finally started to feel lucid again. My nose, however, has been active all day. Lucky me. So the challenge is to stay all sweet and polite while feeling like I've been hit by a truck. I catch myself saying "pardon me" constantly during times like this. Pardon me that I look like a mess and feel even worse than that. Pardon me that I can't seem to control this thing on my face. Pardon me that you can't understand much of what I'm saying. Pardon me that my throat feels really sore and scratchy and my voice sounds like a teenage boy's.
Pardon me that in only a matter of days, my son, my husband, or both of them will be stricken with this and then I will have to take care of them whether I'm feeling better by then or not. Yes, I'm bitter about that. When I'm sick, I just want to be left alone. They need loads of attention. I don't get that. Oh, but pardon me....
Sunday, August 19, 2007
A Woman's Power
You know that saying "If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy?" Well, I think about that one a lot. There really is so much truth to that statement. Traditionally, Southern women have been brought up to be the backbone of their family. The rock. The moral compass. The glue. They (or should I say we?) do not take this responsibility lightly.
My grandma had it. She was the matriarch. Everything truly revolved around her, and not in a bad way. Everyone just gravitated toward her. She took our big, noisy family and managed to keep us all together for every single holiday, and all getting along with each other. But let her get disappointed or angry, and well, it was worse than a hellfire-and-brimstone sermon at a tent revival! And everybody in the line of fire could do nothing but hang their heads and wait for it to pass. At the other end of the spectrum, if you made her proud or happy you were in high cotton. Because it was hugs, love, and kisses for you, along with plenty of bragging to everyone around her until your pendulum swung the other way! Rarely was there any middle ground with her. She did not view life in shades of gray.
I love that women have this kind of power. Our men want to please us. They do not want to incur our wrath. Our children don't want to hear that "momma" voice or see the disappointment in our faces. Why? Is it because we're so evil they're afraid of us? Sweet, soft, gentle ladies that we are? Why, how in the world could anybody think that? ;-)
Not every woman has it, but a lot of us do. The people we love are drawn to us like gnats to a porch light. We shine brightly as the center of our universe. And if that light goes out, it gets missed. Sorely. I think it's because we love others with everything we've got. We take care of them and nurture them. It means more to them than we even realize. I truly think that's why they're so affected by our happiness or, particularly, our lack of it.
Of course, there are some that might realize this power and use it to their advantage to get what they want. However, a real southern lady would never admit to doing so. That just goes against the code. No matter how cunning you might be, it's treason to let on. Because that would jeopardize the position of the sisterhood. And who wants to incur the wrath of the group as a whole?!
My grandma had it. She was the matriarch. Everything truly revolved around her, and not in a bad way. Everyone just gravitated toward her. She took our big, noisy family and managed to keep us all together for every single holiday, and all getting along with each other. But let her get disappointed or angry, and well, it was worse than a hellfire-and-brimstone sermon at a tent revival! And everybody in the line of fire could do nothing but hang their heads and wait for it to pass. At the other end of the spectrum, if you made her proud or happy you were in high cotton. Because it was hugs, love, and kisses for you, along with plenty of bragging to everyone around her until your pendulum swung the other way! Rarely was there any middle ground with her. She did not view life in shades of gray.
I love that women have this kind of power. Our men want to please us. They do not want to incur our wrath. Our children don't want to hear that "momma" voice or see the disappointment in our faces. Why? Is it because we're so evil they're afraid of us? Sweet, soft, gentle ladies that we are? Why, how in the world could anybody think that? ;-)
Not every woman has it, but a lot of us do. The people we love are drawn to us like gnats to a porch light. We shine brightly as the center of our universe. And if that light goes out, it gets missed. Sorely. I think it's because we love others with everything we've got. We take care of them and nurture them. It means more to them than we even realize. I truly think that's why they're so affected by our happiness or, particularly, our lack of it.
Of course, there are some that might realize this power and use it to their advantage to get what they want. However, a real southern lady would never admit to doing so. That just goes against the code. No matter how cunning you might be, it's treason to let on. Because that would jeopardize the position of the sisterhood. And who wants to incur the wrath of the group as a whole?!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Send in the Clown
Before I get into this....it was 106 degrees here today! And still 100 degrees at 9pm. This is beyond ridiculous. Our county fair started today...and one person has already died out there from the heat. Why they want to have a county fair in August is beyond me, anyhow, but this year? I think it's safe to say I'm not going! Somebody send some rain....please!!
So, I went to pick up my son at school. He always is so excited when I walk in and comes running screeching "Mommy!" I love hearing that. It's so much fun to hear him talking with his sweet little boy voice. His vocabulary seems to grow by leaps and bounds every day.
Today, I heard the words that I've been dreading. After I hugged him, Brock looks up at me and says, "I want McDonald's." I was just astounded. Where did that come from? It didn't come from me or his dad. Because we've got this thing about not giving him fast food. And my husband hates McDonald's. Refuses to eat there. I love their fries. They gave me my first job. I have to say that either fast food isn't as good as it used to be, or my tastes have changed. Because I remember all of it tasting much better than it does now.
So how is it that a kid that isn't accustomed to eating at the golden arches could ask to go there? I have a theory. This kid loves tv. And McDonald's does a lot of advertising. With music...which he also loves. And they've had happy meal day a couple of times at his school, which he participated in. I think he's the only kid in the world that doesn't like chicken nuggets. But he loves fries of all kinds. His school is close to Burger King, so I hit their drive-thru and got him a kid's meal. He devoured all the fries, and then nibbled at the cheeseburger, eating mostly cheese and bread. I dealt with the guilt of being a bad mom for caving in to him, depriving him of a really nutritious meal. One of those things that we'll keep just between us, and not tell his dad.
Yes, I'm a sucker when it comes to my son, and he's a momma's boy. And if a clown with big red hair gets his attention, then it's alright with me.
So, I went to pick up my son at school. He always is so excited when I walk in and comes running screeching "Mommy!" I love hearing that. It's so much fun to hear him talking with his sweet little boy voice. His vocabulary seems to grow by leaps and bounds every day.
Today, I heard the words that I've been dreading. After I hugged him, Brock looks up at me and says, "I want McDonald's." I was just astounded. Where did that come from? It didn't come from me or his dad. Because we've got this thing about not giving him fast food. And my husband hates McDonald's. Refuses to eat there. I love their fries. They gave me my first job. I have to say that either fast food isn't as good as it used to be, or my tastes have changed. Because I remember all of it tasting much better than it does now.
So how is it that a kid that isn't accustomed to eating at the golden arches could ask to go there? I have a theory. This kid loves tv. And McDonald's does a lot of advertising. With music...which he also loves. And they've had happy meal day a couple of times at his school, which he participated in. I think he's the only kid in the world that doesn't like chicken nuggets. But he loves fries of all kinds. His school is close to Burger King, so I hit their drive-thru and got him a kid's meal. He devoured all the fries, and then nibbled at the cheeseburger, eating mostly cheese and bread. I dealt with the guilt of being a bad mom for caving in to him, depriving him of a really nutritious meal. One of those things that we'll keep just between us, and not tell his dad.
Yes, I'm a sucker when it comes to my son, and he's a momma's boy. And if a clown with big red hair gets his attention, then it's alright with me.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Hot! Hot! Hot!
It was 104 degrees here today. It's been 99 or higher here for the last week and a half. No rain in sight. It was 85 degrees at 7am this morning. Get the picture? It's freakin' hot around here! It hasn't been like this in a long time. And I hope it's a really long time before it does it again.
This is why we like iced tea and lemonade in the south. I love ice. Lots of ice in everything I drink. In Europe, they rarely use ice in their drinks. What's up with that? Just holding an ice cold drink in your hand will help you cool off a bit. Even better, you burn off a couple of extra calories as your body works to bring that drink's temperature up to your body temperature. That's my kind of workout!
Come to think of it, those same Europeans think it's okay for a woman not to shave under her arms; and they don't all bathe every day, either. Ewww!
I should stop. That is just the antithesis of genteel. You'll think I'm not a lady if I keep this up. And that would simply be a tragedy. It's the running joke that in the south we justify gossiping about other people by blessing their hearts. As if it's going to wipe that slate clean and make every ugly thing you just said sweet as honey. An example...."That is such a pretty sundress she's wearing. It's too bad she has armpit hair that's long enough to braid! Bless her heart."
Alright, so let me see if I can salvage any vestige of class here. I was talking about the heat before I got off on that tangent. I think whoever invented air conditioning should be granted sainthood. Because people get really cranky when they're hot and uncomfortable. And I sleep so good when it's nice and cool. And my new office is cool...and there is no thermostat, but it's okay. Because it's just the way I like it. I stay more alert when the air is cooler, which usually leads me to be more productive.
Heat is bad for so many reasons. It zaps your energy. You get dehydrated. Your hair just lays down and dies...or frizzes up with no hope of regaining control. Makeup winds up somewhere on your neck instead of where you applied it. And then you either look like you just got out of the shower, or like you need to go take one. Bad either way. Your clothes stick to you. You are acutely aware of the sweat rolling off of you, and how pathetic you will look in no time flat, if you haven't gotten there already. We've got enough to worry about without adding this to the day!
Just give me a mint julep and an air conditioner. Before I come down with the vapors!
This is why we like iced tea and lemonade in the south. I love ice. Lots of ice in everything I drink. In Europe, they rarely use ice in their drinks. What's up with that? Just holding an ice cold drink in your hand will help you cool off a bit. Even better, you burn off a couple of extra calories as your body works to bring that drink's temperature up to your body temperature. That's my kind of workout!
Come to think of it, those same Europeans think it's okay for a woman not to shave under her arms; and they don't all bathe every day, either. Ewww!
I should stop. That is just the antithesis of genteel. You'll think I'm not a lady if I keep this up. And that would simply be a tragedy. It's the running joke that in the south we justify gossiping about other people by blessing their hearts. As if it's going to wipe that slate clean and make every ugly thing you just said sweet as honey. An example...."That is such a pretty sundress she's wearing. It's too bad she has armpit hair that's long enough to braid! Bless her heart."
Alright, so let me see if I can salvage any vestige of class here. I was talking about the heat before I got off on that tangent. I think whoever invented air conditioning should be granted sainthood. Because people get really cranky when they're hot and uncomfortable. And I sleep so good when it's nice and cool. And my new office is cool...and there is no thermostat, but it's okay. Because it's just the way I like it. I stay more alert when the air is cooler, which usually leads me to be more productive.
Heat is bad for so many reasons. It zaps your energy. You get dehydrated. Your hair just lays down and dies...or frizzes up with no hope of regaining control. Makeup winds up somewhere on your neck instead of where you applied it. And then you either look like you just got out of the shower, or like you need to go take one. Bad either way. Your clothes stick to you. You are acutely aware of the sweat rolling off of you, and how pathetic you will look in no time flat, if you haven't gotten there already. We've got enough to worry about without adding this to the day!
Just give me a mint julep and an air conditioner. Before I come down with the vapors!
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Who is Fiona?
Of course Fiona isn't my real name. I chose it because of the character in Shrek. I identify with her. The girl that wanted to be a beautiful princess but turned out to be an ogre.
So here are a few tidbits about me in case you're wondering...not sure why I'm doing this because no one is visiting this blog. Maybe that's why....
I'm so completely insecure. But I'm very adept at hiding it.
I love my work...and I know I'm good at it. I can't honestly say that about any other aspect of my life.
I'm lonely most of the time.
I love to make other people smile...and a good laugh is even better.
I like taking care of other people a lot.
My son is the most precious thing in my life. Hands down. I look at him and just can't believe I had any part in creating him. He's amazing.
I hate mirrors. Go out of my way not to look into them.
I like to make others feel special.
I secretly crave for someone to make me feel special.
I think everyone is beautiful when they smile.
I'm an emotional eater. Every excuse ever created to eat...I'm all about it.
I wish just once I could put something on...and feel and look sensational in it.
I've got really thick hair...but I can't seem to find a great cut to save my life.
I can count on one hand the number of times I've ever really felt sexy in my life. And I want to giggle at the thought right now. It seems like such an oxymoron to put me and sexy in the same sentence.
I love chocolate. Love doesn't begin to describe it, but they haven't come up with the proper word yet.
I adore music. All kinds. I can just feel the notes in my soul.
I regret not travelling when I had an opportunity. There's so much I'd love to see. Which helps explain my insane fascination with the travel channel.
I can't just hear a little bit about something that interests me and let it go. No. I have to Google it and find out every minute detail until I have exhausted myself, and only then am I satisfied. Whoever invented the news channels should be shot for what they did to me. Same for Al Gore, inventor of the internet. Yeah, right.
Okay, so that's some kind of personal disclosure record. I've never talked so much about myself in one place. If you read it to the end....well, you're either really bored or you're looking for blackmail material.
Because I'm just the goofy ogre. No princess here.
So here are a few tidbits about me in case you're wondering...not sure why I'm doing this because no one is visiting this blog. Maybe that's why....
I'm so completely insecure. But I'm very adept at hiding it.
I love my work...and I know I'm good at it. I can't honestly say that about any other aspect of my life.
I'm lonely most of the time.
I love to make other people smile...and a good laugh is even better.
I like taking care of other people a lot.
My son is the most precious thing in my life. Hands down. I look at him and just can't believe I had any part in creating him. He's amazing.
I hate mirrors. Go out of my way not to look into them.
I like to make others feel special.
I secretly crave for someone to make me feel special.
I think everyone is beautiful when they smile.
I'm an emotional eater. Every excuse ever created to eat...I'm all about it.
I wish just once I could put something on...and feel and look sensational in it.
I've got really thick hair...but I can't seem to find a great cut to save my life.
I can count on one hand the number of times I've ever really felt sexy in my life. And I want to giggle at the thought right now. It seems like such an oxymoron to put me and sexy in the same sentence.
I love chocolate. Love doesn't begin to describe it, but they haven't come up with the proper word yet.
I adore music. All kinds. I can just feel the notes in my soul.
I regret not travelling when I had an opportunity. There's so much I'd love to see. Which helps explain my insane fascination with the travel channel.
I can't just hear a little bit about something that interests me and let it go. No. I have to Google it and find out every minute detail until I have exhausted myself, and only then am I satisfied. Whoever invented the news channels should be shot for what they did to me. Same for Al Gore, inventor of the internet. Yeah, right.
Okay, so that's some kind of personal disclosure record. I've never talked so much about myself in one place. If you read it to the end....well, you're either really bored or you're looking for blackmail material.
Because I'm just the goofy ogre. No princess here.
The Long and Winding "Rush" Hour
Well, I mentioned that I got a promotion. I think it's going to be really great, except for one thing. I'm back to the god-awful commute.
It was one of the very best things about my last job. Fifteen minutes to work...no interstate involved. Three alternate routes. I was not late a single time due to traffic. The drive was relaxing. And that's huge for me. Because I'm not a fan of driving, really. I'd rather drive than be the passenger, but I don't enjoy driving the way some people do. My shoulders tense up and on long trips ache all the way up into my neck. Why?
In case I'd forgotten, the last week has served to remind me in great detail. It now takes me 45 minutes to an hour to get to work. At first I thought I'd avoid the interstate traffic, since everybody was sitting out there listening to morning radio and drinking coffee as they inched very slowly toward their destinations. I found a route that seemed like it was going to be alright. It wasn't any faster, but at least I was moving the whole time. That made it somewhat bearable. Because I hate sitting in traffic while other people are cutting in front of the line, crowding others out, veering from one lane to another, practically attached to the bumper in front of them. Heaven forbid someone slam on their brakes. All of that makes me tense. I'd like to at least wait until I arrive at work before I tense up.
So, yesterday my somewhat acceptable alternate route turned into a parking lot. It was the first day of school. It took me an hour and a half to get to work. I think I'd have gotten there faster just walking, except I'd have died from heat exhaustion. There's something about sitting in a very long line of traffic with nothing productive to do...except think about how far behind you're getting with every passing moment. It's just not conducive to a cheerful attitude. It really doesn't help when nobody on the road with you seems to have a turn signal installed on their car, or any clue that any of those signs are directed at them. When yellow means go faster and intersections are suddenly meant to be blocked, so that the cross street has absolutely no hope of moving on their green light. And somehow I gave everybody out there the impression that I was going to be kind enough to let them get in front of me because they needed to move so much more than I did.
I can say some very colorful things while sitting alone in that traffic. Alright, so I can hear some of you saying that if I'd just carpool...if everyone would just carpool....then there'd be less traffic and less hassle for all of us. Yeah. But here's the deal. I am married. I am a mom. Being in the car driving to work is the only hope I have of getting a single moment to myself during the course of the day. It's the best thing about driving for me...the chance to get that "me" time that I never get. But all this mess of traffic insists on spoiling it for me.
It's a great scene from a movie....when the car is cruising down the highway with the top down on a gorgeous 70 degree day with a fantastic song playing and not another car in sight anywhere. If I could just find that scenario one time in real life. That's a funny thing that I will admit about myself. When I mow the lawn, I put on my iPod and drive that John Deere like it's going 75 miles an hour down an open road. Just me and the music. Rushing to no place in particular. With nothing pressing to do.
Now there's a fantasy for you!
It was one of the very best things about my last job. Fifteen minutes to work...no interstate involved. Three alternate routes. I was not late a single time due to traffic. The drive was relaxing. And that's huge for me. Because I'm not a fan of driving, really. I'd rather drive than be the passenger, but I don't enjoy driving the way some people do. My shoulders tense up and on long trips ache all the way up into my neck. Why?
In case I'd forgotten, the last week has served to remind me in great detail. It now takes me 45 minutes to an hour to get to work. At first I thought I'd avoid the interstate traffic, since everybody was sitting out there listening to morning radio and drinking coffee as they inched very slowly toward their destinations. I found a route that seemed like it was going to be alright. It wasn't any faster, but at least I was moving the whole time. That made it somewhat bearable. Because I hate sitting in traffic while other people are cutting in front of the line, crowding others out, veering from one lane to another, practically attached to the bumper in front of them. Heaven forbid someone slam on their brakes. All of that makes me tense. I'd like to at least wait until I arrive at work before I tense up.
So, yesterday my somewhat acceptable alternate route turned into a parking lot. It was the first day of school. It took me an hour and a half to get to work. I think I'd have gotten there faster just walking, except I'd have died from heat exhaustion. There's something about sitting in a very long line of traffic with nothing productive to do...except think about how far behind you're getting with every passing moment. It's just not conducive to a cheerful attitude. It really doesn't help when nobody on the road with you seems to have a turn signal installed on their car, or any clue that any of those signs are directed at them. When yellow means go faster and intersections are suddenly meant to be blocked, so that the cross street has absolutely no hope of moving on their green light. And somehow I gave everybody out there the impression that I was going to be kind enough to let them get in front of me because they needed to move so much more than I did.
I can say some very colorful things while sitting alone in that traffic. Alright, so I can hear some of you saying that if I'd just carpool...if everyone would just carpool....then there'd be less traffic and less hassle for all of us. Yeah. But here's the deal. I am married. I am a mom. Being in the car driving to work is the only hope I have of getting a single moment to myself during the course of the day. It's the best thing about driving for me...the chance to get that "me" time that I never get. But all this mess of traffic insists on spoiling it for me.
It's a great scene from a movie....when the car is cruising down the highway with the top down on a gorgeous 70 degree day with a fantastic song playing and not another car in sight anywhere. If I could just find that scenario one time in real life. That's a funny thing that I will admit about myself. When I mow the lawn, I put on my iPod and drive that John Deere like it's going 75 miles an hour down an open road. Just me and the music. Rushing to no place in particular. With nothing pressing to do.
Now there's a fantasy for you!
Monday, August 13, 2007
Precious Memories
Last night I was outside walking the dogs when I looked up into the sky. It was dark and clear and about a million stars twinkled brightly. It took me back to a summer night many years ago...children on their backs on the damp grass, staring up into the sky, hoping to see a falling star.
I have so many memories of growing up in the rural south, but a lot of them are directly related to those lazy summer days that seemed to drag on forever. So much so that I would complain about how bored I was and count the days until school would start again. Yeah, okay, but I told you I was a nerd! It's really funny how a song, or a scent, or a night sky can bring so much of it back.
Sitting in a rocking chair on my grandma's porch, talking to her for hours on end about anything and everything and just watching the world go by. Running in the rain and smelling the freshness of it. Rolling down the huge hill behind my cousin's house, giggling all the way down and dizzily standing up when we reached the bottom, covered in grass. The cool evening breeze blowing across my face as I rode my bike every spare moment I had. The whole family quietly sitting together in the darkness after a huge picnic, listening to the sounds of the crickets and frogs singing their night songs. The whole family eating watermelon together, and the seed-spitting contest that always ensued. Running barefoot for the first time in the spring. Eating strawberries right there in the garden, the sweetest reddest strawberries I ever saw. Getting sick off the green apples growing off the trees in my grandma's yard. Catching fireflies...and then setting them free. Getting my pant leg caught in the chain of my bike and limping home attached to it, knowing I'd just created another pair of shorts and some Barbie doll clothes from the scraps of fabric that was left. Falling off the bike onto the gravel. Repeatedly. Mom putting iodine on the cuts on my knees. The scars that remain on them to this day to prove it. Playing baseball with my cousin in the yard...and the black eye he gave me with his wild pitch...and the ear-piercing scream it evoked that took 10 years off my mom's life and sent my cousin running home for cover. Fishing in the pond on great uncle Otis' farm.
They are all just random snapshots of various moments from my childhood. Each one cherished fondly. Each one crowding out all the painful memories that compete for space in my memory. Some of them don't surface very often, but when they do, they bring such a wonderfully warm feeling. There are so many more of them than I can even mention.
Isn't it weird how you hold on to these things without even trying? How they come back to comfort you and remind you that there were indeed some very good times in your life? I love that.
I have so many memories of growing up in the rural south, but a lot of them are directly related to those lazy summer days that seemed to drag on forever. So much so that I would complain about how bored I was and count the days until school would start again. Yeah, okay, but I told you I was a nerd! It's really funny how a song, or a scent, or a night sky can bring so much of it back.
Sitting in a rocking chair on my grandma's porch, talking to her for hours on end about anything and everything and just watching the world go by. Running in the rain and smelling the freshness of it. Rolling down the huge hill behind my cousin's house, giggling all the way down and dizzily standing up when we reached the bottom, covered in grass. The cool evening breeze blowing across my face as I rode my bike every spare moment I had. The whole family quietly sitting together in the darkness after a huge picnic, listening to the sounds of the crickets and frogs singing their night songs. The whole family eating watermelon together, and the seed-spitting contest that always ensued. Running barefoot for the first time in the spring. Eating strawberries right there in the garden, the sweetest reddest strawberries I ever saw. Getting sick off the green apples growing off the trees in my grandma's yard. Catching fireflies...and then setting them free. Getting my pant leg caught in the chain of my bike and limping home attached to it, knowing I'd just created another pair of shorts and some Barbie doll clothes from the scraps of fabric that was left. Falling off the bike onto the gravel. Repeatedly. Mom putting iodine on the cuts on my knees. The scars that remain on them to this day to prove it. Playing baseball with my cousin in the yard...and the black eye he gave me with his wild pitch...and the ear-piercing scream it evoked that took 10 years off my mom's life and sent my cousin running home for cover. Fishing in the pond on great uncle Otis' farm.
They are all just random snapshots of various moments from my childhood. Each one cherished fondly. Each one crowding out all the painful memories that compete for space in my memory. Some of them don't surface very often, but when they do, they bring such a wonderfully warm feeling. There are so many more of them than I can even mention.
Isn't it weird how you hold on to these things without even trying? How they come back to comfort you and remind you that there were indeed some very good times in your life? I love that.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Happiness
You know, sometimes I get really philosophical, and it's usually in the strangest of places. This post was inspired by yet another trip to the grocery store, where some of my finest observations seem to occur.
Yesterday, I was noticing as I wheeled my cart through the aisles that not a single person was smiling. Some of them were alone, some with children, spouses, cell phones permanently attached to their ears. But not one of them smiling. I wasn't, either. I got to thinking that throughout the course of a normal day, it truly is rare to run across people that appear genuinely happy. Now, you can't count that "I'm only smiling because it's the polite thing to do and you smiled first, anyhow..." look that you frequently get. Those aren't what I'm talking about. But now that I've mentioned that, isn't it interesting how many of us do that all day long when we really just want to go home and change into some comfortable clothes and eat ice cream and wallow in whatever it is that's eating at us? Only me? I don't think so!
So what's the point? If we're all running around just faking it at best, or at worst not even trying, then why even bother? I asked a friend of mine about this. "Oh, I'm happy. Definitely. I just don't feel like showing it every second of every day." Huh? If you're truly happy, then doesn't it make sense that you'd want everyone to know? That you might even hope to spread that happiness around a little? I think we're all just too caught up in ourselves and our lives and our jam-packed schedules to really appreciate most of what's going on.
My son is going to be 3 in November. He was born with several heart defects. When he was 6 months old, he underwent open heart surgery. He came through it all like a little trooper. I wish I had handled it as well as he did. One of the doctors that I work with pointed out something to me at a barbecue not long ago. He was playing with my son, who was giggling uncontrollably. He knew what Brock had been through. He asked me if he's always that happy. And that's when he made a really big observation. He said that Brock's whole demeanor just shouted out how great it is to be alive. I've looked at my son differently ever since then. Before, I saw him as a survivor...tough and stoic. Now, I see that he embraces life to the fullest. He's a very happy child and every day seems to be a celebration of his existence. I love that about him. It's like this intrinsic part of him, that somehow he just knows he's been given this wonderful gift of life and he means to enjoy every second of it.
I wonder if we all were like that at one point. And if we were, where and when did we lose that? How do I keep my son from losing that? Why can't we all just enjoy being alive a little bit more? I'm as guilty as anybody. It's not hard for me to take things way too seriously. I'm a worrier by nature, even though my logical side says that it doesn't help at all. And I have a hard time relaxing. I'm trying to change all that for myself a little. It's not easy.
Maybe everybody just hates grocery shopping as much as I do. Maybe if I'd made the observation somewhere else, it wouldn't have seemed so grim. Maybe if it hadn't been 100 degrees outside, we all would have been smiling more.
And maybe we all just need to spend an afternoon with our kids, and learn a lesson or two from them....
Yesterday, I was noticing as I wheeled my cart through the aisles that not a single person was smiling. Some of them were alone, some with children, spouses, cell phones permanently attached to their ears. But not one of them smiling. I wasn't, either. I got to thinking that throughout the course of a normal day, it truly is rare to run across people that appear genuinely happy. Now, you can't count that "I'm only smiling because it's the polite thing to do and you smiled first, anyhow..." look that you frequently get. Those aren't what I'm talking about. But now that I've mentioned that, isn't it interesting how many of us do that all day long when we really just want to go home and change into some comfortable clothes and eat ice cream and wallow in whatever it is that's eating at us? Only me? I don't think so!
So what's the point? If we're all running around just faking it at best, or at worst not even trying, then why even bother? I asked a friend of mine about this. "Oh, I'm happy. Definitely. I just don't feel like showing it every second of every day." Huh? If you're truly happy, then doesn't it make sense that you'd want everyone to know? That you might even hope to spread that happiness around a little? I think we're all just too caught up in ourselves and our lives and our jam-packed schedules to really appreciate most of what's going on.
My son is going to be 3 in November. He was born with several heart defects. When he was 6 months old, he underwent open heart surgery. He came through it all like a little trooper. I wish I had handled it as well as he did. One of the doctors that I work with pointed out something to me at a barbecue not long ago. He was playing with my son, who was giggling uncontrollably. He knew what Brock had been through. He asked me if he's always that happy. And that's when he made a really big observation. He said that Brock's whole demeanor just shouted out how great it is to be alive. I've looked at my son differently ever since then. Before, I saw him as a survivor...tough and stoic. Now, I see that he embraces life to the fullest. He's a very happy child and every day seems to be a celebration of his existence. I love that about him. It's like this intrinsic part of him, that somehow he just knows he's been given this wonderful gift of life and he means to enjoy every second of it.
I wonder if we all were like that at one point. And if we were, where and when did we lose that? How do I keep my son from losing that? Why can't we all just enjoy being alive a little bit more? I'm as guilty as anybody. It's not hard for me to take things way too seriously. I'm a worrier by nature, even though my logical side says that it doesn't help at all. And I have a hard time relaxing. I'm trying to change all that for myself a little. It's not easy.
Maybe everybody just hates grocery shopping as much as I do. Maybe if I'd made the observation somewhere else, it wouldn't have seemed so grim. Maybe if it hadn't been 100 degrees outside, we all would have been smiling more.
And maybe we all just need to spend an afternoon with our kids, and learn a lesson or two from them....
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Never Let 'Em See You Sweat
I hate being new at anything. Yes, I'm a control freak. But I'm a southern lady, so it's difficult to see. Because I was taught from a very young age that it's just not ladylike to show others when something's eating at you. I remember my grandma told me that when someone asks me how I am always say, "Why, I'm fine, thank you" because ladies don't share their problems with just everybody.
So, I got a promotion at work. Sort of a big deal and a good raise. I have now moved out of the hospital setting. Don't get me wrong, I've been in an administrative position for seven years now, but never out of the hospital. Now, I'm at corporate. Well, guess what? It doesn't get more business-like than this! Numbers, reports, offices, meetings, and not a white coat in sight. My job will allow me to return to the hospital setting on a regular basis, but only for meetings.
At orientation this past week, I was sitting in a room with 14 other women. All of them in management positions of some sort (but none of them a peer of mine). It was eerie. Like looking in a mirror. I could see 14 other control freaks. Detail-oriented, assertive people that don't like to hear the word no. I mean it was one scary room! And the scariest part was that I felt comfortable with them. However, I noticed that I've got this thing about me that they don't have.
Somewhere along the way, I picked up this outgoing, sweet demeanor. A friend of mine says I could put a knife in your back and you'd thank me for doing it. She says I pull out that Southern Belle routine and it's all over. It's not a routine, though. It comes naturally. It was the way I was raised. I like to make people smile, I like to get my way, and I like to convince people to give me what I want very willingly. That is my personal challenge in life. I don't come on really strong, although I absolutely can if needed. Those other women seemed a little brash to me. They came on too strong. I totally understand their motivation and their ambition, and I identify with it. I guess I just use a different approach.
Will it work for me? I don't know. Maybe over time I'll become more like the rest of them as I learn to navigate this new world. I've had a lot of success pulling out the old charm, though. I'm interested to see how effective it will be now. Am I scared about all this new stuff? Oh yes. Am I concerned about doing a good job? Absolutely. Am I going nuts about getting over the learning curve already? Is Jack Daniels made in a dry county?
How am I doing? Why, fine, thank you!
So, I got a promotion at work. Sort of a big deal and a good raise. I have now moved out of the hospital setting. Don't get me wrong, I've been in an administrative position for seven years now, but never out of the hospital. Now, I'm at corporate. Well, guess what? It doesn't get more business-like than this! Numbers, reports, offices, meetings, and not a white coat in sight. My job will allow me to return to the hospital setting on a regular basis, but only for meetings.
At orientation this past week, I was sitting in a room with 14 other women. All of them in management positions of some sort (but none of them a peer of mine). It was eerie. Like looking in a mirror. I could see 14 other control freaks. Detail-oriented, assertive people that don't like to hear the word no. I mean it was one scary room! And the scariest part was that I felt comfortable with them. However, I noticed that I've got this thing about me that they don't have.
Somewhere along the way, I picked up this outgoing, sweet demeanor. A friend of mine says I could put a knife in your back and you'd thank me for doing it. She says I pull out that Southern Belle routine and it's all over. It's not a routine, though. It comes naturally. It was the way I was raised. I like to make people smile, I like to get my way, and I like to convince people to give me what I want very willingly. That is my personal challenge in life. I don't come on really strong, although I absolutely can if needed. Those other women seemed a little brash to me. They came on too strong. I totally understand their motivation and their ambition, and I identify with it. I guess I just use a different approach.
Will it work for me? I don't know. Maybe over time I'll become more like the rest of them as I learn to navigate this new world. I've had a lot of success pulling out the old charm, though. I'm interested to see how effective it will be now. Am I scared about all this new stuff? Oh yes. Am I concerned about doing a good job? Absolutely. Am I going nuts about getting over the learning curve already? Is Jack Daniels made in a dry county?
How am I doing? Why, fine, thank you!
Friday, August 3, 2007
A Trip to the Other Side
Whew, is it hot or what? I mean, summer down here is complete with that god-awful humidity that can result in a shower furnished by your sweat glands to rival anything your indoor plumbing can produce.
So, I just got back from a trip up north. I went for business, with a side order of pleasure. I had checked the weather report a week beforehand. Eighty degree days and sixty degree nights. Alright! A break from the oven! But alas, it was not to be. The heatwave arrived around the same time I did, I think. It was still a good time. Hey, I'm used to this. The people were friendly, although some of them were taken aback when I spoke. Duly impressed with the genteel accent, no doubt. I appreciated being somewhere different. I was in New England, my first visit there. Such a rich history. And I think it's the first time I actually used the word charming to describe anything. But it really was just lovely there, and no other word seems to quite fit. Their hospitality could give us a run for our money down here, and I thought we were supposed to have that market cornered.
The plane trip home was interesting. I sat next to this guy who was a dead ringer for Larry the Cable Guy. I swear. Same outfit and everything. He was headed to Dallas (shocking, isn't it?). He says to me as I get up at the end of the flight to retrieve my laptop from the overhead, "Baby, just don't knock me in the head with that thing." I almost did it, just because he called me baby. The only thing that stopped me was I honestly don't believe he would've noticed the impact. I was also invited to dine with a very assertive man from New Jersey. He thought I needed some company while I sat in the airport. Did I mention how convenient a cell phone can be in those moments?
It can be a lot of fun to travel alone. You don't have to be on anyone's schedule except your own. You don't have to argue over where you're going to eat. You can see and do anything you want. The downside is that a lot of people think you need some company and try to make polite conversation ad nauseum. And seeing wonderful sights can be a little hollow when there's no one to share them with. But this trip gave me a chance to clear some cobwebs out of the old brain and recharge my batteries. Plus, I met some very nice people and saw a part of the country I'd never seen. I'd love to go back there and see some of the things I missed.
All us folks down here in Dixie can say all we want about southern hospitality. Some of them damn Yankees are downright friendly...and gracious. There. I said it. And meant it. Y'all just go ahead and talk about me. Just don't forget to say "bless her heart" when you do!
So, I just got back from a trip up north. I went for business, with a side order of pleasure. I had checked the weather report a week beforehand. Eighty degree days and sixty degree nights. Alright! A break from the oven! But alas, it was not to be. The heatwave arrived around the same time I did, I think. It was still a good time. Hey, I'm used to this. The people were friendly, although some of them were taken aback when I spoke. Duly impressed with the genteel accent, no doubt. I appreciated being somewhere different. I was in New England, my first visit there. Such a rich history. And I think it's the first time I actually used the word charming to describe anything. But it really was just lovely there, and no other word seems to quite fit. Their hospitality could give us a run for our money down here, and I thought we were supposed to have that market cornered.
The plane trip home was interesting. I sat next to this guy who was a dead ringer for Larry the Cable Guy. I swear. Same outfit and everything. He was headed to Dallas (shocking, isn't it?). He says to me as I get up at the end of the flight to retrieve my laptop from the overhead, "Baby, just don't knock me in the head with that thing." I almost did it, just because he called me baby. The only thing that stopped me was I honestly don't believe he would've noticed the impact. I was also invited to dine with a very assertive man from New Jersey. He thought I needed some company while I sat in the airport. Did I mention how convenient a cell phone can be in those moments?
It can be a lot of fun to travel alone. You don't have to be on anyone's schedule except your own. You don't have to argue over where you're going to eat. You can see and do anything you want. The downside is that a lot of people think you need some company and try to make polite conversation ad nauseum. And seeing wonderful sights can be a little hollow when there's no one to share them with. But this trip gave me a chance to clear some cobwebs out of the old brain and recharge my batteries. Plus, I met some very nice people and saw a part of the country I'd never seen. I'd love to go back there and see some of the things I missed.
All us folks down here in Dixie can say all we want about southern hospitality. Some of them damn Yankees are downright friendly...and gracious. There. I said it. And meant it. Y'all just go ahead and talk about me. Just don't forget to say "bless her heart" when you do!
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Why Does It Always Got to Be Momma?
The title of this post is a direct quote I heard from a co-worker around 10 years ago or so. She is Cajun...can you tell? She was telling me about how she felt so overwhelmed as a new mother and a wife with a stepson. She felt as though everyone was depending on her for everything, and then blaming her for everything that went wrong. So she asks me that question. At that time, I wasn't married and had very little idea of what she was talking about. But I would learn....
I hadn't thought about that conversation in such a long time, until an incident last week triggered the memory. I was in the grocery store with my son. He was quietly riding in the shopping cart eating the free cookie they gave him at the bakery. I turned down an aisle and there was a couple coming in the opposite direction. About the time our shopping carts met, five pre-teen boys rounded the corner. They were all wearing those Heelys shoes and being quite rambunctious. They came rolling between the shopping carts as though they were navigating an obstacle course, sending a breeze drifting through my hair as they went by, and soliciting a delighted squeal from my son, Brock. I looked at the couple across from me. They were appalled. The lady said to her companion, "Now where are their mommas?" It was the exact same thought running through my mind.
But why does it have to be momma? Why can't it be daddy? Who knows, maybe those boys daddies bought them those shoes in the first place! Can't daddies teach their children manners, or correct them when they forget? Can't their daddies screw up and forget to supervise them at every moment of their lives? And my biggest question of all, because it is forever coming up at my house...why does it always have to be momma when they're sick, or hurt, or scared, etc?
This brings to mind another observation. My husband somehow managed to survive all alone for some time before we were married. So, why is it that he's forgotten where everything is now? Why can't he ever set his own alarm clock? Why can't he make his own doctor and dentist appointments and remember to keep them? Why can't he pick up his clothes, or do laundry? And why, oh why, is it always my fault if he forgets anything?
I've been thinking about all of this for the last week. What I've come up with is really no big revelation. Truth is, it's a natural thing for a momma to run her household. We carried those children around inside us and gave them absolutely everything we had...this is what they know we will do for them. It is in our nature to be the one that is the "go-to" person for virtually everything that happens within our family. We keep track of things. We remember. We take care of things. Everybody knows we're going to do this anyway. So why fight it? My husband doesn't have to remember, because I always do.
I am a nurse by profession. A caretaker. Sometimes I get tired of taking care of everybody, and just want somebody to take care of me. But here's the funny thing. When they do, it sort of makes me uncomfortable. It doesn't feel right, somehow. Just not natural.
Why does it always got to be momma? Because most mommas wouldn't have it any other way....
I hadn't thought about that conversation in such a long time, until an incident last week triggered the memory. I was in the grocery store with my son. He was quietly riding in the shopping cart eating the free cookie they gave him at the bakery. I turned down an aisle and there was a couple coming in the opposite direction. About the time our shopping carts met, five pre-teen boys rounded the corner. They were all wearing those Heelys shoes and being quite rambunctious. They came rolling between the shopping carts as though they were navigating an obstacle course, sending a breeze drifting through my hair as they went by, and soliciting a delighted squeal from my son, Brock. I looked at the couple across from me. They were appalled. The lady said to her companion, "Now where are their mommas?" It was the exact same thought running through my mind.
But why does it have to be momma? Why can't it be daddy? Who knows, maybe those boys daddies bought them those shoes in the first place! Can't daddies teach their children manners, or correct them when they forget? Can't their daddies screw up and forget to supervise them at every moment of their lives? And my biggest question of all, because it is forever coming up at my house...why does it always have to be momma when they're sick, or hurt, or scared, etc?
This brings to mind another observation. My husband somehow managed to survive all alone for some time before we were married. So, why is it that he's forgotten where everything is now? Why can't he ever set his own alarm clock? Why can't he make his own doctor and dentist appointments and remember to keep them? Why can't he pick up his clothes, or do laundry? And why, oh why, is it always my fault if he forgets anything?
I've been thinking about all of this for the last week. What I've come up with is really no big revelation. Truth is, it's a natural thing for a momma to run her household. We carried those children around inside us and gave them absolutely everything we had...this is what they know we will do for them. It is in our nature to be the one that is the "go-to" person for virtually everything that happens within our family. We keep track of things. We remember. We take care of things. Everybody knows we're going to do this anyway. So why fight it? My husband doesn't have to remember, because I always do.
I am a nurse by profession. A caretaker. Sometimes I get tired of taking care of everybody, and just want somebody to take care of me. But here's the funny thing. When they do, it sort of makes me uncomfortable. It doesn't feel right, somehow. Just not natural.
Why does it always got to be momma? Because most mommas wouldn't have it any other way....
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Geography of the South
Okay, so this post is just what I've observed from a lifetime of living in the South. If you look it up, the "South" is technically considered everything south of the Mason-Dixon Line. If you live down here...well, re-consider.
For instance, I have been told (by Southerners) that I am a glorified Yankee, because Kentucky is too far north. Virginia falls into the same category. I live in Tennessee now. They call this the mid-south. Then there's the deep south beneath us. And then there's Florida. I think the consensus is that Florida is not a southern state at all. Nope. Too many retired Yankees down there. Have you been to Florida recently? Good luck even finding a southern accent! Speaking of that, have you been to Nashville lately? Good luck finding anyone that was born and raised here! Everyone is a transplant from somewhere else...but most are still from a southern state. And Texas? Well...I'm fairly certain they're just a whole other country.
And this has nothing to do with any of this, but you know how they say in the South things are just a little slower and more laid back? Ahem. Have you driven through Atlanta????! Or even Nashville during rush hour? I'm just saying....
I know I'm jumping around with this post, but it all does sort of, kind of relate to geography. Have you ever asked for directions? Okay, so that's no from all the men, but, girls, you know what I'm talking about, right? If you ask a man, he'll give you the "take route 62 about 3/4 of a mile until you come to South 40 and then take a right and go for about another 7 8/10 of a mile until you see 450 on the mailbox." If you ask a woman, you get the "well, you go down the road until you come to the little market with the BBQ pig painted on the sign, then turn right and drive past that big red barn. Just after you pass that, you'll see a big field...and then you keep on going until you see those cute little yard gnomes and pretty hanging pots of begonias on the front porch. If you come to a graveyard, you've gone too far." So, here's what I don't get about that. Men are supposed to be more "visual" than women. So how come they're not describing all the stuff you will see when you're driving? Why is it that they can remember the state-issued numbers of every road in North America, but they can't recall a single street name? I'm not sure this is just a southern thing, either.
It's funny, though. For all the differences we make about what part of the south we're from, we all have a lot in common. Nearly all of us have a fierce loyalty to family, heritage, and tradition. If you are looking for those things, come on down. It doesn't matter which state route you take, I guarantee you'll find them anywhere down here.
For instance, I have been told (by Southerners) that I am a glorified Yankee, because Kentucky is too far north. Virginia falls into the same category. I live in Tennessee now. They call this the mid-south. Then there's the deep south beneath us. And then there's Florida. I think the consensus is that Florida is not a southern state at all. Nope. Too many retired Yankees down there. Have you been to Florida recently? Good luck even finding a southern accent! Speaking of that, have you been to Nashville lately? Good luck finding anyone that was born and raised here! Everyone is a transplant from somewhere else...but most are still from a southern state. And Texas? Well...I'm fairly certain they're just a whole other country.
And this has nothing to do with any of this, but you know how they say in the South things are just a little slower and more laid back? Ahem. Have you driven through Atlanta????! Or even Nashville during rush hour? I'm just saying....
I know I'm jumping around with this post, but it all does sort of, kind of relate to geography. Have you ever asked for directions? Okay, so that's no from all the men, but, girls, you know what I'm talking about, right? If you ask a man, he'll give you the "take route 62 about 3/4 of a mile until you come to South 40 and then take a right and go for about another 7 8/10 of a mile until you see 450 on the mailbox." If you ask a woman, you get the "well, you go down the road until you come to the little market with the BBQ pig painted on the sign, then turn right and drive past that big red barn. Just after you pass that, you'll see a big field...and then you keep on going until you see those cute little yard gnomes and pretty hanging pots of begonias on the front porch. If you come to a graveyard, you've gone too far." So, here's what I don't get about that. Men are supposed to be more "visual" than women. So how come they're not describing all the stuff you will see when you're driving? Why is it that they can remember the state-issued numbers of every road in North America, but they can't recall a single street name? I'm not sure this is just a southern thing, either.
It's funny, though. For all the differences we make about what part of the south we're from, we all have a lot in common. Nearly all of us have a fierce loyalty to family, heritage, and tradition. If you are looking for those things, come on down. It doesn't matter which state route you take, I guarantee you'll find them anywhere down here.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Gittin' Above My Raisin'
Contrary to what some of my friends from Michigan think, the title of this post does not refer to anything related to dried fruit. Bless their Yankee hearts, you just can't help but love 'em!
Nope. This is what people in the South say to you right after they mention something about you being all "high falutin'." My transformation began in the 6th grade, and was completed sometime around my sophomore year of high school. How do you nearly get kicked north of the Mason-Dixon line and invited not to come back? Allow me to explain...
My 6th grade teacher began the process. Her name was Mrs. Blunsche. I will never forget her. The first day of class, she went to great pains to show us how to spell her name. She was from Indiana. She was not impressed with our speech. Not even a little. In fact, she made it a point to drill into us that people would not perceive us to be intelligent if we continued to speak this way. She also said that cursing was what people did when they lacked a good vocabulary, but somehow that particular lesson never sunk in.... She vowed that we would learn to speak proper English before we left her class. Well, I was your typical nerd. I wanted to be intelligent. So that comment really struck me, and I decided it was time to make some changes.
Imagine my parents' surprise when I came home talking about tires, fires, gas, and "over there." Allow me to translate those back into my native tongue (in order) so that you can truly appreciate the difference...tar, far, gace, and o'vare. This was huge. What were they teaching me in that school?! The whole parent-teacher fiasco began. Mrs. Blunsche stood her ground. It didn't matter, anyway. The seed had been planted, and I had already made up mind. I was going to sound intelligent if it killed me. My family thought I was turning my back on them, that I wasn't proud enough of my heritage to talk like they did. I was gittin' above my raisin'! It was the talk of every family get-together. I was gonna grow up and forget where I came from....
I still have a definite Southern accent, no denying it. But from then on, I tried to enunciate and "sound intelligent." I am now 38 years old. And my family STILL talks about my speech every time I go home for a visit. Make no mistake...these people never forget!
Nope. This is what people in the South say to you right after they mention something about you being all "high falutin'." My transformation began in the 6th grade, and was completed sometime around my sophomore year of high school. How do you nearly get kicked north of the Mason-Dixon line and invited not to come back? Allow me to explain...
My 6th grade teacher began the process. Her name was Mrs. Blunsche. I will never forget her. The first day of class, she went to great pains to show us how to spell her name. She was from Indiana. She was not impressed with our speech. Not even a little. In fact, she made it a point to drill into us that people would not perceive us to be intelligent if we continued to speak this way. She also said that cursing was what people did when they lacked a good vocabulary, but somehow that particular lesson never sunk in.... She vowed that we would learn to speak proper English before we left her class. Well, I was your typical nerd. I wanted to be intelligent. So that comment really struck me, and I decided it was time to make some changes.
Imagine my parents' surprise when I came home talking about tires, fires, gas, and "over there." Allow me to translate those back into my native tongue (in order) so that you can truly appreciate the difference...tar, far, gace, and o'vare. This was huge. What were they teaching me in that school?! The whole parent-teacher fiasco began. Mrs. Blunsche stood her ground. It didn't matter, anyway. The seed had been planted, and I had already made up mind. I was going to sound intelligent if it killed me. My family thought I was turning my back on them, that I wasn't proud enough of my heritage to talk like they did. I was gittin' above my raisin'! It was the talk of every family get-together. I was gonna grow up and forget where I came from....
I still have a definite Southern accent, no denying it. But from then on, I tried to enunciate and "sound intelligent." I am now 38 years old. And my family STILL talks about my speech every time I go home for a visit. Make no mistake...these people never forget!
Thursday, July 5, 2007
My Big Premiere
So, here I am. Posting my thoughts for all to see, completely unsolicited. All I can say is it sounded like a good idea at the time. If you've stumbled across this blog...stick around. I could use the company. If I said I'd pay you to be here...the check's in the mail. I promise.
You may be wondering about the name of this blog. I wanted something that would give a nod to the South...my home and heritage. Actually, it's a direct quote from my great-grandma...her answer to nearly everything we ever said to her. A good 'ole Southern sayin'. Actually, as a kid, there were a lot of sayings that I didn't understand and this was one of them. Not because of the actual words, but because of the dialect. You see, this phrase was spoken with the words all sort of melting into one another. Kind of like the French do it, but not quite as elegant in the delivery. In fact, if I type it like it sounded, it looks more like "WelllllIdeeeclah." Most people just don't understand what an accomplishment it was for me to be 7th grade spelling bee champion. I spent the better part of elementary school trying to figure out not just how to spell what my family was saying...but where the heck they came up with those words!
I'll give you one more for good measure. Drekly. That's how everybody in my family said it. Even me. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was around 8 years old and was riding in the backseat of my parents' car when my mom said this to my dad. I had an epiphany! Like divine intervention, it struck me. D-I-R-E-C-T-L-Y! Wow. I cracked the code! I sat in that backseat with a huge goofy grin on my face. Surely, I was a genius.
For those of you who are wondering, I grew up in the lush, green hills of southeastern Kentucky. My family may not always use proper English, but they are some of the best people you'd ever want to meet. I'm proud to say I'm one of them.
That's it for now. Stop in again if you get the notion. I'm sure I'll have something to say....
You may be wondering about the name of this blog. I wanted something that would give a nod to the South...my home and heritage. Actually, it's a direct quote from my great-grandma...her answer to nearly everything we ever said to her. A good 'ole Southern sayin'. Actually, as a kid, there were a lot of sayings that I didn't understand and this was one of them. Not because of the actual words, but because of the dialect. You see, this phrase was spoken with the words all sort of melting into one another. Kind of like the French do it, but not quite as elegant in the delivery. In fact, if I type it like it sounded, it looks more like "WelllllIdeeeclah." Most people just don't understand what an accomplishment it was for me to be 7th grade spelling bee champion. I spent the better part of elementary school trying to figure out not just how to spell what my family was saying...but where the heck they came up with those words!
I'll give you one more for good measure. Drekly. That's how everybody in my family said it. Even me. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was around 8 years old and was riding in the backseat of my parents' car when my mom said this to my dad. I had an epiphany! Like divine intervention, it struck me. D-I-R-E-C-T-L-Y! Wow. I cracked the code! I sat in that backseat with a huge goofy grin on my face. Surely, I was a genius.
For those of you who are wondering, I grew up in the lush, green hills of southeastern Kentucky. My family may not always use proper English, but they are some of the best people you'd ever want to meet. I'm proud to say I'm one of them.
That's it for now. Stop in again if you get the notion. I'm sure I'll have something to say....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)