Warm Cookies With A Whiskey Chaser

The Perfect Mix of Comfort and Shenanigans



Blogroll Me!
100 Things About Me
Tinmen Don't Dance
Humble Sandwich
A Son from Another Mother; Matt
Auburn Pisces
Splenda In The Grass
the bokey chronicles
Jeffrey Ricker
TunaGirl
Rocket Man
The Beauty of All Things
GuruStu
No Milk Please
A Life In The Day
Shadow Footprints
Scott B Blog
Seth Hancock Photography
Frogma
MzOuiser
Famous Author Rob Byrnes
Watersea's Ocean Bloggie
Cheap Blue Guitar
Does This Mean I'm A Grownup?
Upside Down Hippo
NoFo
Loose Ends

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

The Tribe You Build



I have a lot to be grateful for.  Not the least of which is an amazing circle of family and friends.  It's been, as I have mentioned, a bittersweet weekend.  I cannot begin to tell you the excitement I felt all last week in anticipation of my birthday weekend.  Wes and Kiva had arrived on Monday, my sister Loke and my brother-in-law Phil would be coming on Friday, and for weeks, I had been planning with "my girls"; Kim, Kendall, and Erica, all the fun things we were going to fill the weekend with.  Not one second was disappointing.  It was completely and utterly over-the-top joyful.  I was surrounded by light, and love, and laughter.  My wonderful "halo" of beautiful souls gathered and made me feel like the center of the universe.  From Friday lunch, to Sunday goodbyes, I wouldn't have changed a thing.  Well, perhaps one thing.

As Lokelani and Phil were at the door and we were exchanging goodbye hugs, my phone pinged.  I had been off of social media all weekend.  I was having way too much fun to stop and stick my nose into the screen of a phone.  After all, nothing was more important than what was happening in my immediate universe.  Perhaps selfishly, I didn't want to be dragged down by politics, I didn't want to hear anymore about Irma, I couldn't watch anymore heartbreaking videos or news of devastation.  Just for this weekend, I was going to feel only joy.  Almost made it.  I picked up my phone and looked at it, and saw what I first perceived to be some kind of sick joke.  Someone had posted a RIP comment about a friend.  My instant thought was; "Oh, it's his birthday weekend too.  Someone's making a funny about his age."  Caris saw my face and said; "What, Mommy?"  I said the words out loud; "Someone just said Scott Barnes died.  That's a joke, right?"  I saw her face drop.  "I'm so sorry." She said.  "Averie and I knew last night.  We had hoped you wouldn't see anything until later today when everyone went home."

It's a very good thing there was an ottoman behind me, because I literally fell off my feet.  I left my sister and brother-in-law standing there at my front door, mouths open, while I lost my face in my hands and sobbed.  No. No. No.  We just had birthday greetings.  We do Birthday Darling Martinis. No. This is NOT happening.  After a few moments, I pulled myself together enough to properly thank Loke and Phil and see them off.  Then I went right back into the house where I asked Caris to fill me in.  I didn't want to see post after post because I knew FB would be flooded.  She explained to me what she knew.  I sobbed again.  Charlie, Caris, and Bryson gave me loving embraces and told me how sorry they were.  Caris said she and Averie knew I would lose it.  They were right.  They know me.

The world went cold.  I was a zombie the rest of the day and into the night, and into the next day.  I could only process enough to think of the happy day that we finally met face-to-face and share that memory with the FB community.  Monday afternoon, as Charlie and I went to have a bite to eat, I talked about Scott all the way to the restaurant.  I ordered a Birthday Darling Martini, and Charlie and I toasted Scott.  I cried. He hugged me.  I opened Facebook.  The minute my friend Jeffrey Ricker appeared back on FB after having been gone from it for years, I knew it was real.  His appearance back on that platform solidified the heartbreak.  He said exactly what I knew he would say, and all I was feeling. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

Charlie began talking about services; the when, the who, the what.  He told me to go.  Always the generous soul, my husband.  I kissed him on the cheek, he hugged me back. 

"Listen." He said. "We've had this conversation a million times.  You have this amazing network of friends all over the place.  You've always blown me away with the way you've gathered your tribe.  At the beginning, all those years ago, I was scared for you.  I mean, how do you trust?  Who do you know to trust?  It's scary 'out there'.  And yet, your soul knows, and your big heart trusts, and for some reason, it's always been a good thing, this blog world of yours.  It's brought you family.  I've learned to enjoy that benefit with and for you."

I agreed.  I talked about the many disappointments and betrayals of people who actually share your 3D world.  The ones who called you friend, but hurt you and damaged your trust.  The ones who made you hesitant to open yourself.  But, writing on a platform and sharing who you were, and naively thinking perhaps as an ironic form of protection, that you were pouring your soul into an abyss, it was safe.  No one was reading anyway, right?  How wrong I was.  How joyfully wrong.  That Abyss, which was the original name of my blog, had eyes.  Those eyes were attached to hearts and souls, like mine.  One of those souls wrote to me and said my blog was poorly named, and he offered up Warm Cookies (Thank you, Toddy).

The tribe grew.  From coast to coast, and across the pond, and way down under, it grew.  At the same time, each member of my tribe allowed me to join theirs.  We loved each other through our sorrows, our grief, our celebrations, our joys, our victories.  If you go down the link list on the home page of my blog, you will see names that may mean nothing to you.  But they are the world to me.  Time passes, lives move forward, Facebook happened and the blog world took a dive.  However, it all started there.  It just moved to a different platform.  One with less words, and honestly to me, one with less heart and soul.

The difference I guess, is that we built this foundation a long time ago.  Those of us who started there were once faceless to one another, but as my friend Steve once wisely said; "There is no faking the soul."  This treasured tribe so dear to me, no matter where the wind blows our lives, we are bound.  Some of us have had the great joy of actually meeting face-to-face.  Some of us are still looking forward to that day.  But seeing one another in our 3D worlds doesn't change the depth of our love, admiration, respect for one another.  Seeing each other just adds a new dimension of joy.

Sadly, this blog has been quiet for awhile.  But when something shakes me off-kilter, it is still the place where I run.  Yes, the loss of a dear, sweet friend has rocked me to my core, and here I am for therapy.  This may not be read, and it may not mean anything to anyone but me.  I have many, many posts here that never get published.  That's okay.  This is how I process.  This is where I grieve.  This is where my tribe began, and this is where I beat that tribal drum.  They know who they are, and though they are scattered, they hear me.  They hear my heart.  If anything, I think Scott would be glad to see me write something.  Anything.  He was one of those who encouraged me to keep writing.  I have failed in that.

Scott's gift to the world was his eye for beauty in everything.  Everything.  Scott's gift to me was his friendship.  Given with trust; pure, and sweet, and with a full heart.  Scott broadened the scope of my tribe by adding to it in my 3D world; Jay, Seth and Lisa Hancock, Levi, and Zack.  In turn, those friendships grew and more were added; Crafty, the Nathans; Smith and Bates.  Charlie and I found treasure from a map of Scott's making.  This is how the heart grows.  A seed planted, a root system created, a blooming life springs forward.  Scott loved hearing the ripple-effect his ONE visit created.  My life immeasurably blessed by his presence.  He smiled humbly, giggled softly and handed Seth his camera to take a picture of us.  I felt his heart in my hand and his arms around me and quite simply, I melted in. 

The gaping hole he leaves is resonating far and wide.  The world feels harsh, and cold, and wrong.  Yet, and this is a great big YET; his joy in life, his journey in these past two years, his effervescent spirit, his brilliant, happy smile, are the soothing balm to this broken heart.  He was happy.  Right now, that has to be enough.  For now, let it be enough.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

SHHHHH......



I stole this from a commenter on my friend Corri's FB page.  I instantly loved it.  I also instantly took my inventory.  I've been guilty of spouting off about something someone posted that they obviously enjoyed, and I poo-pooed all over it. 

Some of it completely good-naturedly.  Hockey for example.  My people know I love hockey.  I have a dear friend who, over the years, has given me a "workout" with hockey banter, each of us fans of rival teams.  But I do admit I've been a pretty horrible football basher.  I hate the game.  I honestly hate everything about it.  I have an equal disdain for basketball.  Oh heck, let's just be real, shall we Pua?  I hate ALL SPORTS.  Except hockey.  Hockey is awesome.  :)

With this recent Pokémon craze, I was at first annoyed.  But because Pokémon played such a huge role in my kids lives, I decided to peek in to the world everyone was going gaga over.  The truth is, it's pretty awesome.  I admit it.  I have found myself out and about, on my morning walk, waiting for my coffee friends, running errands, waiting at a job interview, looking for Pokémon.  I've been assimilated.

This, like any fad, is going to have its cheerleaders and its choir of detesters.  It's what happens on Social Media.  Everyone knows it.  Something comes along, or someone posts their enthusiasm for something they enjoy, and there's always someone who wants to throw a raspberry at them.  Again, I've been guilty of that.  The difference now, I guess, is that I have some time to reflect on where I am in my life that I would let something effect me so profoundly.  I'm unemployed.

With unemployment comes a level of depression.  Well, if you're not supposed to be unemployed.  Don't get me wrong, we won't be losing our home anytime soon.  My husband is a wonderful provider.  But the fact is, should he lose HIS job, we're screwed.  I have no talent that anyone wants, really.  I have no degree to fall back on.  Everything I would bring in financially is put toward what would be our retirement.  Let me tell you, that really isn't much.  So, it can be quite scary.  My husband is generous and doesn't make me feel bad, but I know me being employed would very much help.  So, as the days go by and the resumes and interviews bring no fruit, it weighs on me.  Then what happens is, I take my depression and frustration out on others.  On Social Media.  That makes me feel pathetic.

I decided at the beginning of the month, after not getting too many hits on jobs, and after getting more and more sad with the state of politics and news, and violence in our world, that I was NOT going to participate in negativity.  I was not going to follow the normal cycle of letting things take me down.  It's a very dark hole that I am easily susceptible to allowing myself to fall into.  It manifests itself in me saying snarky, sarcastic, passive aggressive things in response to someone's joy.  It's sad, and it's sick, and it's not me.  I don't like it.  It makes me feel crappy.  I've also found it's my response for two things: 

1.  Jealousy.  That's not something I'm proud of.  But it's real, and it's true, and it's completely embarrassing.  I hate this about me.  Of all of my faults, and there are many, this one slays me and leaves me incapacitated more than anything. 

I'm fat.  So when my friends who watch what they eat and exercise do their thing, and post about it, I get all grumpy.  Instead of cheering them on, I want to say something high-caloric in the snark department. 

My house is falling down around us.  There are so many things that need fixing that it's depressing.  When I see friends getting new kitchens, new carpet, new floors, new landscape, I become a creature that goes well beyond the Green-eyed Monster.  I simply ooze chartreuse.  Again, it's not something I'm proud of.  In fact, I can't even believe I'm sharing this now.  A response of  "Lucky you." is the most generous I can be when inside of me, a torrent of nastiness is happening.  It's ugly.  It's very ugly.  I don't like this about me.

People seem to travel.  A LOT.  And they post lots and lots of travel pics to exotic places.  Yes, we've been lucky with local trips to Mexico (which I love) and weekender cruises (cheap and close to home).  But the last time I went home to Hawai'i was 6 years ago.  I'm not whining.  I AM grateful.  Hell, my poor sister hasn't even had an actual vacation or gone anywhere for YEARS.  But, I'm just being honest.  I don't want to hear about trips all over the world.  And I get monstrous when people say; "Just travel."  Yeah?  Seen my bank account?  Wanna yodel in the canyon.  STFU!  Jealousy.  It's ugly.  I hate it.

You get my point.

2.  This one is a doozy.  Lack of understanding.  Not lack of compassion.  I'm overloaded with compassion and empathy, sometimes to my own detriment.  The lack of knowledge of something.  If I don't understand it, if I don't "get it", I tend to debase it.  I know I'm not alone in that. 

The result of these two things is that I risk hurting people I care about.  Well, yes, it's true that most of my interactions these days are online.  I'm not working, so I don't get out much.  But there are people out in FB world that I care about deeply.  Though we may live far apart and we don't see on another in everyday life, I care about them and their lives.  Why is it then that I would be so quick to judge something they do that they get enjoyment out of, and say something mean about it?  Do I feel better after?  Does it give me joy when I know that if I don't hold my tongue and blurt my opinion of their "silliness", it could hurt them or make them mad? 

I don't understand the face-swapping thing.  It honestly grosses me out.  I mean, to the point of physical illness.  But, so many friends and family members are getting the biggest kick out of it.  My world is full of happy nerds, musical freaks, over-the-moon grandparents, rabid dog-lovers (yes, I did that on purpose), vegans, meat-eaters, published authors, political enthusiasts (that's my nice word), creationists, scientists, ecumenists, geniuses, the list goes on and on, encompassing a myriad of life's wonders.  Would I tell any of these folks to their faces that I think the thing that gives them happiness in this messed up world is stupid?  No, I wouldn't.  I don't.  Well, okay, I confess I have said some pretty awful things to people who have bashed our President in hateful ways.  But with regard to religion and politics, I only speak my true mind in the comfort of my home, in the safe company of my husband.  Who loves me in spite of all of the ugly parts.

I decided recently, when I recognized that I was getting really depressed with this last round of unemployment, that I wouldn't bash people's joys.  So, I've held my tongue on many things, and I've asked myself these questions when I want to set my fingers to commenting:

1.  Is my friend excited right now?
2.  Does this thing give my friend joy?
3.  Will saying something shitty take my friend's joy away, or will it just make me look like a crappy person?
4.  Do you WANT to hurt your friend's feelings just because you don't understand this thing that makes them happy?
5.  Will your opinion enhance or detract from their joy?

I have decided to stay away from political posts, religious posts, and negative posts.  I have decided not to fall into my hole of depression.  I have decided to SHARE in joy, not take away from it.  Don't think for one minute I'm not biting my tongue a lot.  I am.  But that doesn't mean I can't be a better person for myself.  Because being a shitty person certainly doesn't make my depression go away. 

That being said, all bets are off if you VagueBook.  If you Vaguebook, I'll annihilate you.  ;)

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Charlie and the Junker Factory

Back in January of 2012, we were looking for a new (to us) car.  Charlie was, at the time, driving his mom's old Buick and I was still driving our van.  I wrote a post about it here.  Long story short, we didn't end up turning the van in as a trade-in.  When we went home to start it up, it was completely, catastrophically dead.  We knew it had problems, which is why it was time.  But because we couldn't start it, Charlie just decided to make a cash down payment and we brought home my little "Aubergine", a used Nissan Rogue in a color the maker calls "Iridium", but looks kinda purply-brown in the sun.  I drove the Rogue, and Charlie continued to drive mom's old Buick. 

The van sat in the driveway, unused for three years.  In those three years, we got constant inquiries from gardeners and painters in the neighborhood.  The doorbell would ring on a regular basis with people asking if we wanted to sell it.  Unfortunately, the person that he is, my husband said he could not, in good conscience, sell a vehicle that didn't run, and he just didn't have the time or inclination to fix it up enough to get it running.  So there the van sat, like a wallflower at the dance, waiting for her handsome prince to come and ask her for a spin. 

All the while, Charlie drove that old Buick.  The headliner was droopy and wrinkled like last Saturday's Walk-of-Shame dress, the floorboard on the driver's side was rusting away and you could actually see the road below in a little hole, the seats had worn down and you could feel the springs poking your butt.  You couldn't wash it because every time you tried, the paint would come off in large sheets.  I told him the paint was all that was holding it together, so he'd better stop washing it.  I begged him.  I pleaded with him.  "Please Charlie.  Please let's go look at a more reliable, safer used car.  I worry about you in that car."  He shrugged his shoulders and said he was fine.  The car is running well and still has life and we just can't afford another car payment right now.   That was until last year, when mom's old Buick died.  I thought to myself; "This is it!  Finally!  He'll get himself a better vehicle!"  Nope.

He went down to Pep Boys auto supply and started buying parts to fix....THE VAN.  Yep, the sweet little wallflower from the prom was being asked to dance again.  I complained and whined and moaned about the time and money he was spending on car repairs, all of this falling upon deaf ear.  No literally, he's deaf in one ear.  He got the van running, quite proud of himself.  While he was working on it, the neighbor's gardener came running over, quite excited, and asked if he was finally fixing it up to sell to him.  You should have seen the sad look on his face when Charlie told him that yes, he was fixing it up, but that he was going to keep it to drive it himself.  Such a sad, sad face.  I felt sorry for him, shrugging my shoulders as he looked at me with those sad puppy eyes, then walked away, dejected.  Three years of hope, for both of us, down the drain pan.  On the other hand, here was Charlie, holding his arms in the air, flexing his muscles like He-Man, victorious in resurrecting the dead van.  His last act in the circle of car life that rotates in this house?  He called a veterans organization and donated mom's old Buick.  For some reason, they were grateful to have it.

So, for the last year and a half, my frugal selfless husband has driven the faithful family van.  As with the Buick, the headliner drooped, nay, it ripped open.  We held it up first with safety pins until those rusted and the foam underneath crumbled like feta cheese.  If you drove with the window down, which you HAD to do because the motor for the window didn't work, the foam "snow" would fly into your face.  So then, we tried duct tape.  Classy.  It was good the window stayed down because the AC didn't work, turning the van into a rolling sauna in the summer.  The driver's seat broke, so Charlie replaced it with the passenger seat, leaving the passenger side empty.  The paint completely oxidized.  You couldn't open the driver's side door because the handle was broken.  You had to go in through the side slider, or the passenger side.  He said; "See?  It's easier now to get to the driver's side now that there's no passenger seat!"  Always the optimist, my husband.  He fixed little things as they came along, me still complaining about pouring money into it.  "Luckily, I'm a very handy guy!"  I sigh with each of his optimistic chirpings.

Last Friday, Charlie tells me that he paid the DMV registration on the van, but that it needs to get a smog test before they'll send the stickers.  "When's it due?", I asked.  "The 31st", his reply.  WHAT??  That's next week!  "Yeah, I know.  We've just been so busy."  Le sigh.  So I tell him to take the Rogue to work and I'll drive the van over to the Auto Club and get it smogged.  Cut to the chase, the guy at the Auto Club tells me it's not even testable because there's an exhaust leak.  We need a new muffler AND he says, we probably have a head gasket problem on the way.  Great.  More money.  I call Charlie at work and tell him the news.  He said he had an idea that was going to be the case.  I turn on the whining and tell him he really needs to think about a car.  He rebuts with the usual budget limitations, me not working, etc.  The weekend comes and goes, and on Monday, Charlie comes home from work holding printouts of used cars at local car lots.  Wait...what?

Charlie:  "I called several muffler places and told them what I needed.  Basically, they all said I'm looking at an easy $3500 to do what needs to be done.  All this, just to get it smog tested.  Yeah, I'm not doing that.  So, I relent.  It's time."

Pua:  "Halle-F-ing-lu-jah!"



Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado, I present to you, my sweet, deserving husband's new (to him) ride.  If anyone deserves a car, this wonderful guy does.  This guy who has been driving klunkers for pretty much the entirety of the kids' lives.  While he gives me the safe, reliable car, he sacrifices without a single complaint.  Day in, day out, not a peep of complaint even though I know he's been in true, physical pain climbing in and out of that van with his bad back.  That's my Charlie.  I'm overjoyed for him.  Yes, like a true engineer he went over it with a fine tooth comb, haggled prices, got what he wanted in the way of price that would fit our meager budget and not put a strain on us while I'm unemployed.  Yes, it's an economy car.  No, it's nothing fancy even though he deserves so much more.  But it's very Charlie.  Deserving, wonderful, unselfish Charlie.  "So shines a good deed in a weary world."

The van?  We practically had to pay THEM to take it.  "But...", says Charlie, "We got every last mile out of that old girl, didn't we?"  Yes, Sweetie we did.  Thanks to you.

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

The Interview

No, not the Rogan-Franco one. Not the Kelly-Drumpf one either (but didn't he say he'd never talk with her?) My interview yesterday. As mentioned, it went well. It's what happened AFTER that took some time to digest.  I guess I was still trying to come down (no pun intended) from being stuck in the building elevator with Mr. Claustrophobia. You know, I'm not completely afraid of tight spaces.  After all, I squeeze my formidable okole into a pair of clean panties every morning.  I have more of an issue with trypophobia (seriously, don't google that with images) or acrophobia.  However, being stuck with someone who is claustrophobic can really make you feel like you are too. 
 

 
 
It's good I remembered I'm a mother because the soothing voices and the memories of Lamaze patterned breathing soon kicked in.  It had to.  I went into survival mode myself, because this young man was completely coming unglued in a matter of minutes.  He did what everyone does as a first response; he pushed buttons.  He pushed all the floor buttons, he pushed the open/close buttons, and finally he found the one button that would soon prove to become my own undoing if I didn't calm him down...he found the red emergency button. 
 
Now, this is the third time in my life I've been stuck in an elevator.  The first time, I was 7 months pregnant with Averie.  Luckily, it was in the building that my OB-GYN was in, and I was stuck with two other expectant mothers.  One of them was due the following day.  Funny thing is, none of us panicked.  In fact, after opening the little door with the phone and letting whomever was on the other end know we were stuck, we started talking about; what else?; all things babies.  Childbirth methods, labor fears, mothering fears, nursing, etc.  The time passed quickly, no one went into labor, and soon we were moving again and out of the elevator.  I became friends with one of those women and we're still in contact today.  I call this a happy accident.  A good kind of "stuck in elevator" story, if you will.
 
The second time I was stuck in an elevator was between the 6th and 7th floor of the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas.  We were in Sin City to celebrate Caris' 21st birthday.  Where else would we stay for a Caris celebration, than a hotel that is smothered in pink?  After having had some fun the night before at a dinner show, Averie, Caris, and Caitlyn were still asleep.  I'm an early bird, and as it was only 5 am and I knew I had some time to kill before the girls would be up and around, I got dressed and went down to the casino to have some coffee and spin the wheel of fortune.  Three hours and the most expensive cups of coffee later, I thought it was time to get back upstairs and rouse the gang for breakfast.  I stopped at the coffee bar to get three cappuccinos, then headed to the elevator.  Cue dramatic music of pending doom (or is it?) here. 
 
I got into the empty elevator, turned to push the button for the 9th floor while balancing a tray of coffee cups, then looked up to see a VERY large wall of a man standing next to me.  He wore a big Stetson, some fine looking Justin boots (I asked), a big silver belt buckle, probably his "going to a barn-raising party" finery (pearl snap buttons), and a very pretty silver engraved bolo tie.  He looked at me, smiled and nodded, raised his hand to his hat, I thought to tip it, but he actually surprised me by removing it and holding it next to him in one hand.  In the other hand, he held a very large mug type glass in the shape of a boot.  Yes, a boot.  It wasn't a Justin (I asked).  It was just at this point that the elevator came to a very sudden halt, jostling me enough to push my back against the wall of the elevator while trying my best to make sure I didn't spill hot coffee.  I felt a big hand steady my arm.  To which, this booming voice over the top of my head (he was a good 6'7" and probably 350 lbs. easy) says;  "You okay, Darlin?"  For some stupid reason, I turned into a teenaged girl because my only response was to giggle.  Good gravy, I giggled.  No one has called me "Darlin" since I lei'd Toby Keith (oh yes, I did). Well, he and my sweet Texas friend, Boogie (Damn, I miss him).  Apparently, I blushed too because I could feel it.  I assured him I was fine, thanked him for his chivalry, and for the next 45 minutes, again after calmly calling someone, we waited and passed the time.  I did tease him about the boot mug.  His turn to blush.  He asked if it were filled with rye would he be redeemed.  I laughed and told him it probably made it worse in a couple ways.  I reminded him that it was 8 am and held up my coffee tray, and said he might not want his friends to see him holding that mug; rye or no rye.  He reminded me it was Vegas and he'd been playing poker, so he honestly wasn't aware what time it was, and he was just now, on his way up to bed.  Fair note.  Soon, the doors opened, albeit between floors, but they got us within an easy hop down. 
 
 He wished my daughter a happy birthday, I wished him a good rest, we thanked each other for passing the time so easily, then he donned his beautiful Stetson, and we parted ways.  My phone rang.  It was Caris wondering where I was.  "I have coffee (it was cold).  And a story (heartwarming).  I'll be right there."  Another good "stuck in an elevator" story.  Then, there's yesterday.
 
After merely three minutes, my friend started to sweat, swear, and generally freak out.  He was young, maybe 30.  He kept looking at me like I needed to save him.  So, I calmly asked him if he knew how to meditate.  He looked at me like I had two heads and started pushing that red button again.  Let me tell any of you out there who don't know what that red button does; it is a bell.  A VERY VERY LOUD BELL.  Like a school fire drill bell.  Like the bell that goes off in a firehouse when there's an emergency.  THAT kind of bell.  Now, put that bell in a very small, closed in elevator, and add it to the yelling of a panicked human being.  Not good.  I asked him to please calm down.  We were not in a tower.  We were in an atrium-style building with an open courtyard.  Only 4 floors.  I know none of this mattered to him, but I thought if by talking I could get him to stop yelling and pushing that damn bell, I could maintain my own sanity.  I knew there were people all over the building and in the courtyard that could definitely hear us, and help would arrive soon.  I asked him about himself, why he was in the building, if he was coming or going, where he was going after this ("a bar", he responded.  "me too", I thought).  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned against the wall.  "See?" I said.  "You DO know how to meditate!"  He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.  We heard someone outside say that help was coming.  I envisioned this:
 
or this...
 
 
What we got was basically this:
 
 
But, at least I avoided this (sort of):
 
And made it back to this:
 
 
Oh yeah, the interview.  You know the drill.  Don't call us, we'll call you.  On to the next adventure.
 
 
   
    

Thursday, February 11, 2016

Say "Ahhhh"


I got a call from Averie yesterday.  We don't often get to chat and I had texted her earlier in the day without response.  In the afternoon, I texted her again because it wasn't like her not to respond and so I was worried.  She called on her way home from work and apologized for not getting back to me, it was just one of those overly busy days.  Relieved, we just went into the pleasure of catching up.

We bantered back and forth with the usual "what's going on in your world?" stuff, and as always, there are the giggles that come when I talk with Averie.  The girl is funny even when she's not trying to be.  Once "the business" was done she proceeded to tell me about her recent visit to the dentist.  She began it by saying; "I want to thank you for your forethought as a parent WAY back when I first went to the dentist as a kid."  Confused, I said; "Um, okay.  Why?"

Averie:  My dentist said that I have nice teeth.  So thanks for the braces.  But that's not really what I'm talking about.  I'm talking about my fillings.  He was surprised at my age that I had white fillings.  He said that most people he sees at my age, Caris and Bry's age, and older, have amalgam.  You know, that silver filling.  Anyway, he says he spends a lot of time in people's mouths replacing the amalgam with composite.  He said I was lucky, because amalgam was just the "go to" when I was a kid.  Insurance covered it, so that's what people did.

She proceeded to tell me that she'd thought about it, and though it might be a small thing, she realized and remembered how much thought I put into it back then.

Averie:  I suddenly remembered you coming home from the dental consultation and talking to Daddy about the expense of composite fillings, that it wasn't covered by insurance.  I know that you and Daddy didn't really have the money, but when it came to us, you always found a way.  I remember you being adamant about the composite and how important you thought it was in light of your own, and Daddy's own dental nightmares.  It didn't really register to me.  I was young.  But when the dentist mentioned it, it all came back to me, and I just thought how grateful I am that you went to bat for us in that way.  It's the small things.  They come back.  It's that, and other things.  Like when Caris had to have her broken nose repaired.  They said you could leave it, but I remember you saying; "Oh hell no, my baby is getting her nose fixed come hell or high water!"  By the same token, I remember you saying; "It's composite for my babies' teeth.  None of that silver crap!"  We didn't know it then, but we know it now, as adults, the everyday sacrifices you and Daddy made for us.  I know they came from your own bad experiences growing up; your parents not having the best dental care for you, or when you didn't get follow-up surgery on your face.  I know those are the reasons you made the decisions you made for us, no matter the cost.  I told my dentist about that conversation you and Daddy had so long ago.  He said; "Your mom was ahead of her time."  Yeah.  She was.  So thanks for that.

No, Averie.  Thank you.  It's the big things.  Like gratitude.  :)

Thursday, January 07, 2016

Happy Birthday, Daddy.



I really miss you.

Wednesday, January 06, 2016

Day 6



Normally, at the beginning of a new year, folks are into their new routines.  For most, it's an exercise regimen, or perhaps a new diet program.  Maybe they've given up smoking, or drinking.  I have one friend who, upon the onset of a new year, they start their "Pura Vida" lifestyle.  Only "good things" will go into his body, and only positive thoughts into his mind.  I had no such thoughts this year.  I had a fleeting vision that I would do all of that.  Diet, lose weight, get back to walking every day.  That thought came and went as fast as my first martini of 2016. 

What I did do, however, is leave Facebook.  Without fanfare.  I didn't make a grand announcement of my retreat.  I just pressed the "deactivate my account" button on New Year's Day and walked away.  Today is day 6.  On Day 1, a dear friend texted me to let me know he noticed.  What I found so funny about that is that this friend is not an everyday FB user.  He occasionally posts his beautiful photos with words of inspiration.  I love seeing them.  His posts are meaningful.  He doesn't post drivel.  He doesn't post pictures of his food.  He doesn't post stupid articles about movies or celebrity gossip.  He doesn't post pictures of abused animals or children.  He doesn't post about his exotic vacations, his new cars, his vacation homes.  His posts are without a dollar sign attached, or any hint of braggadocio.  He doesn't get caught up in the silliness of whining for attention, or "Vaguebooking".  He's a decade younger than me, but far more wise, far more healthy (both spiritually and mentally), and I always joke with him how when I "grow up" I want to be just like him.  The fact that he even noticed my departure touched me.  We don't see each other in our 3D world, in fact, we met 20 years ago online, and in that time, we've actually laid eyes on one another only 5 times at most.  Yet here he was the one who immediately texted me and said he noticed.  We have this "thing", we sense a disturbance in the force in each other's worlds, if you will.  But the truth of the matter is, we were friends long before FB and we will be friends long after.

Believe me, this isn't easy.  I'm one of those people who likes to be "connected".  I love social interaction.  I really love people.  Not all people, mind you.  But I do love the sense of belonging.  I spent most of my working career being an at-home mom.  With the onset of the computer age, and home computers becoming the norm, the interwebs were, at times, my only social contact when my kids were tiny.  I connected with other people, they touched my life, watched my children grow up, and hopefully, in return, I touched their lives as well.  This blog was my savior.  It was a sweet time, but as all sweet times go, it would end when FB arrived on the scene.  Of course, all of my blog buddies are still my FB friends.  But something changed.  Everything changes.  The Blogosphere became "old news" and "old fashioned".  The family of bloggers retreated, running like rats from a sinking ship to their waiting rescue craft; Facebook.  Instant gratification.  Constant movement.  A grandstand full of audience members vying for Drew Carey's attention on Let's Make A Deal.  Jumping up and down and waving a new post;  "Here!  Here!  Look at me!  Pick me!  I have the best this, I have the best that, I have, I am, I do, I matter!"

FB is invasive.  It's a scrolling cancer.  It lets you see too much.  Too much politics.  Too much religion.  Too much materialism.  Too much.  For someone who is compulsive, sensitive, tenderhearted, and tends to fall easily into depression, it is dangerous.  My husband has been patient, and good-natured about it.  Sometimes, I have been guilty of having my nose in my phone when I shouldn't.  Ironically, while I have flesh and blood people around me to visit with, I have been peeking into other people's open windows on FB and ignoring who I'm with.  That is a complete embarrassment to someone who didn't allow her children to answer their phone or even have their phones out when we are visiting with people.  Before cell phones, we sat at the dinner table and talked.  If the house phone rang during meals, we did not answer.  Now, with mobiles and social media, all signs of proper etiquette have been bludgeoned to death. 

Everywhere I look, I see parents with young children sitting in cafes, or at the park.  Lovely?  Well, it would be if the parents weren't nose deep in their phones while their child sits across the table from them trying to get their attention.  Or yelling from the playground for their parent to come play while they, instead, sit on the bench looking at their phones.  Even worse, now if you go into a restaurant you see WHOLE FAMILIES around a table, every single one of them nose-deep in their phones.  No interaction with one another, only with what is going on "out there".  It's heartbreaking really.  My kids were in college when FB came to being.  Back then, it was ONLY for college kids.  You had to have a verified school email address to sign up.  When they opened it up to the masses, manners became a thing of the past.  I admit, with sadness, that I am guilty.

I know people on FB who probably post 3 or 4 times an hour.  Everything they're doing, everything they're seeing, everything they're eating, and so on.  There are people who are constantly posting who they're with and every second of what they're doing with who they're with.  I often wonder how the "who they're withs" feel when that person is constantly on their phone posting to FB.  How do you fully enjoy the moments of BEING with those people if you are thinking "Oh!  I need to post this picture!"  or "Hey!  I need to check in!"  Again, guilty.  Ashamed and guilty.

So, Day 6.  Yes, I am having severe withdrawals.  Yes, I sickeningly wonder if anyone misses me.  Yes, I feel a bit lost and lonely.  And yes, I find that I feel all these things a bit sad.  But on the other side, I almost feel introspective.  I feel like I hear my "voice" coming back to me.  I feel like I want to write again.  This is hard.  Especially when really, your life is just pretty quiet.  Work, home, work, home, occasional social interaction.  FB tends to make people like me "exaggerate".   Oh look!  I have exciting things happening too....see?  Let me post it so it seems like I'm special.  You can easily get lost in the old "keeping up with the Joneses" game.  It isn't easy to step away from the game board.  But I have to try.