left of write

2011-12-31T19:04:00.000-08:00

There's something about a "new year" that always has me waxing -- well... if not poetic, at least somewhat verbose. Hah! Who am I kidding? I'm ALWAYS verbose. But I was talking today with a co-worker who also happens to be a dear friend and she made a valid point: what is it about a "new year" that makes people get all mushy gushy? The stroke of midnight tonight is not coated with some magic fairy dust: when I wake up tomorrow, I will still have the same soul-sucking job, drive the same car in dire need of an alignment and a brake job, my house will still be filthy and I will still be fat. 12:01AM January 1, 2012 will not magically change any of these facts.

And while we're on the subject, let's talk about "New Year's resolutions." We make "resolutions" which are oftentimes unrealistic and unattainable, and when we fail to achieve them, we wind up feeling like failures ourselves. When what we should be doing is setting goals that are at least somewhat reachable.

So my "goals" for the new year are simple.
1) Appreciate my good customers. They make the job somewhat tolerable. And one never knows what opportunities may arise from good connections :)
2) Put a new battery in the Jeep. Even though the car was a lifesaver leading up to and especially after shoulder surgery when I couldn't raise my arm to drive a stick shift, I miss driving my Jeep. And even though the Jeepster only gets about a mile or two or ten to the gallon, driving it makes me happy.
3) Clean the back porch. This is actually a more daunting task than one might imagine. But if I can manage to carve out a clean area of one hundred twenty square feet, imagine what might eventually be accomplished with the rest of the house?
4) Eat more chocolate. Preferably dark. This is the ONE goal I'm pretty sure I can accomplish. And I can even justify it by citing the fact that some studies say it's good for you. So who am I to argue with medical recommendations that involve the consumption of chocolate?
5) Lose a couple of pounds. Sure, I could stand to lose about 80, but am I going to starve myself to do it? Um, that would be a resounding "no." As evidence: see #4) above. Yes, I have the motivation that I'm going to be an attendant at a dear friend's oceanside wedding in Maui this coming summer, but I've already resigned myself to the fact that I'll be the Melissa McCarthy look-alike bridesmaid at this shindig. The redeeming fact is that I've promised not to challenge the other bridesmaids and the bride-to-be to a bachelorette "Fight Club" party. But I still may find a Brazilian restaurant for us to eat at :)

2011-01-31T22:29:00.000-08:00

my iPod is doing a happy dance

This is a slightly off the wall post, but why not... I'm a music fanatic, and just had to share what I personally think is a phenomenal buy. If there are any classical music lovers out there, I found a deal on iTunes that shouldn't be missed. When putting together the music for my aunt's memorial service, I stumbled across "The 100 Most Essential Pieces of Classical Music" for $9.99. Anyone who purchases on iTunes regularly knows that average "per track" purchase prices range from 69 cents to $1.29. This collection breaks down to TEN CENTS per track. And none of it is "filler" or abbreviated versions. Whether you know the tracks by name or not, or even if you have no clue who composed them, you will know these pieces.

NOTHING calms me down from a hellacious day spent dealing with the public like listening to classical music. So go check it out. You can thank me later :)

Personal faves: Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata", Barber's "Adagio For Strings", Rachmaninoff's "Prelude in C-Sharp Minor."

2011-01-30T12:20:00.000-08:00

just a writer...

Digging around on the 'net, I found a link to a literary website where I was reading about French author Collette. I was struck by a particular quote of hers: "Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you're a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff's worth, without pity, and destroy most of it."

I've always hoped that I could one day transition from writer to author, but I'm not so sure that being just a writer is necessarily a bad thing. I would like to think that some of my better writing has come from just opening up my heart and allowing my thoughts to flow. But I also derive great pleasure in editing, and already have one published book edit under my belt. (I hope that's not a commentary on me -- that I'm more a fan of my own verbosity than that of others. I really do edit myself; I have the cuts to prove it.)

There are certain writers who have such a distinctive style and voice that resonates with me, I enjoy their everyday ruminations as much as I do their structured pieces. (*ahem* -- you know who you are. *cough* cough* snuff*snuff* I must stop mentioning you lest you think I have a crush :) Jen Lancaster is another of my favorite reads who writes in a conversational style about the everyday happenings in her life. In fact, her publishing deal was garnered after building a huge internet following while chronicling the trials and travails associated with job-hunting in the post-911 apocalyptic job market. Who knew going from a 6-figure income to standing in the unemployment line could be such a fun read? I guess it was the endearing snarkiness of it all -- I love me some well-written snarky.

So... I'll try to be a little more liberal with the knife when dissecting my own stuff. But if I remain just a writer, that's ok too.

Current Music: Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings" - London Philharmonic

2011-01-26T16:44:00.000-08:00

In memory of fran...

I just returned home from a looonng and exhausting day spent at the funeral home and cemetery. My 86-year-old aunt passed from this life about 2am Sunday after an arduous last couple of years, and an especially difficult last couple of months. She had been hospitalized 5 times since the first of November, battling COPD, emphysema and congestive heart failure. When she entered the hospital last week with pneumonia, it quickly became evident that this would be her last hospitalization, and her body eventually had enough and shut down.

Our family kept a round-the-clock vigil from Thursday forward, with someone being by her side virtually the entire time. When her middle daughter (who had been her primary care-giver for the past 12 years) left the hospital Saturday night for just a few hours to shower, change and catch a quick nap, she told her mom, "Now don't you go anywhere until I get back." And in a final act of defiance, my aunt waited until everyone had left to draw her last breath and leave this life.

It is still hard to envision my aunt as an 86-year-old who had a myriad of health problems which eventually took her life, because I will always remember her as the "cool" aunt whom I have tried to pattern my life after. She loved sports, as both spectator and participant, and was quick to instill that love in her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She also had the most extensive collection of classical music I've ever seen, and indulged me spending hours at a time, lying in the middle of her living floor, listening to her albums. An avid fisherman, she had won several tournaments down through the years, and had even won a top-of-the-line fully tricked-out bass boat as top prize in one of the bigger tournaments. She and her second husband were also pilots, and they shared ownership of a twin-engine Cessna with several other couples. She was part of the Civil Air Patrol, and on occasion would fly commercial to pick up a plane, and then fly it to it's destination. She is the only person I know personally who survived a plane crash; she was piloting a plane for delivery when a sudden wind sheer forced her down on approach at the head of the runway. The new plane was totaled, but she walked away from the wreckage and was cleared of any error once the FAA investigation was completed.

She was fun-loving, raucous, often ribald, but always about FAMILY. Very few families nowadays extend past 3 or possibly 4 generations at most, but my favorite photo of my aunt is the one of her, her daughter, her granddaughter, her great-grandson, and her great-great-grandson. Five generations. In all, she had 3 daughters, 11 grandchildren, 27 great-grandchildren, and one great-great-grandson. She was a strong female - a true matriarch - and she has given rise to a family inhabited by strong females, of which I am proud to be numbered. And it was these very females who planned and carried out one of the most personal and meaningful memorial services of which I have ever been a part.

The eulogy I delivered contained this particular story which I feel summed up her life. I remember back to one spring when I was a little girl; our area has always been plagued by tornadoes and damaging weather, but this particular storm was worse than most. In that one weekend, my aunt's apartment roof was blown away, the hangar collapsed, her plane was flipped and the wings torn off, and her boat dock and bass boat sank. When I expressed my dismay, she said, "Aww, it's just "stuff." We'll replace it. Or we won't." I remembered thinking to myself: "Wow, she must be rich." But as I grew older and came to appreciate the special place she and her family occupy in my life, and as I looked out on that sea of faces gathered to honor her, I see how rich she truly was.

2011-01-07T20:25:00.000-08:00

I love my brother. And no, I don't mean that in a weird Angelina-kissing-James-Haven-on-the-lips-at-the-Oscars sorta way. I mean that I really do love my brother, and our relationship has done nothing but blossom over the past decade or so.

We've had an interesting relationship down through the years, going all the way back to my arrival on this earth. He was an oh-so-cool almost 13 when I made my unplanned appearance, and I think he was probably more embarrassed by the fact that I was solid evidence that our parents still had sex than he was perturbed by my actual existence. Although a newborn being added to the family certainly put a damper on his fun, he tolerated me. Only when I turned 6 or 7 and showed an aptitude for anything involving a bat and ball did he decide that I was probably a keeper. Athletic prowess raised my worth in my brother's eyes and may explain a little why I value athleticism to this day.

But my brother and I never had a nuts and bolts sorta relationship because of the disparity in our ages. The year he started college was the year I started FIRST GRADE. Our poor mother had kids in school for 30 straight years, and by the time I was reaching my formative years and building relationships, my brother was already out of the house, married, and starting a family of his own. We enjoyed each other's company, but we didn't see each other that often and didn't have that much in common, or so it seemed. When we did spend time around one another, it could sometimes be rocky, due to the fact we are both somewhat stubborn and rather opinionated. (There is a now rather legendary family story of he and I getting into a verbal disagreement out in the yard at my mother's house that reached such a crescendo as to cause one of the neighbors to come outside and see what the ruckus was about. When she saw who it was, she quickly ducked back inside so as to not get hit by any stray verbiage. And in case you're wondering: the argument involved the relative height the lawnmower blade should be set at. I kid you not.)

Fast forward a number of years to about 6 or 8 years ago. Our father had already passed, and our mother's health had been less than stellar, and she was becoming more and more dependent on me, due to the fact that I lived 2 doors away and he lived an hour and a half away. I didn't begrudge this; it was just a fact of convenience and logistics, but it was starting to wear on me a little. My brother has always been extremely giving; all I've ever had to do was tell him I or our mother needed something and it was ours -- no questions asked. But I was becoming more and more drained by the day-to-day demands and I felt he needed to take a slightly more active role, so I called a pow-wow to discuss it. The result? Little more than two months later, he put his gorgeous house on the market and moved 45 minutes closer. He contributes monthly to covering Mom's bills, comes up almost weekly to help do yard work or stuff around her house and has been a huge help to both Mom and me.

But the most important point in all this has been the strengthening and deepening of our relationship. My brother has come to see me as a responsible adult and not just his "little sister" and I've come to appreciate him for the man he is. He is a man who loves his wife and family, loves God, and has raised 2 beautiful sons who are now wonderful young men, with families of their own. He is a loving grandfather who is just a big ol' kid at heart. He loves traveling, sports and music. And it is this latter love that gave us one of the most enjoyable nights ever together.

My brother turned me on to "The Sing-Off" and I quickly became hooked on this a cappella competition that aired over a period of 3 weeks in December. We each had our favorites, but both of us LOVED Street Corner Symphony, 6 local guys (from here in Nashvegas) who finished second in the competition. When my brother found out they were singing at a local club, he bought tickets for he and his wife and for myself as well, and the concert Tuesday night was one of the best shows I've ever been to. There's something about good music that is just soul-stirring, and he gets that. More than once that night, I looked over at my brother and saw such pure joy on his face that it brought tears to my eyes. I love my brother, and it makes my heart happy to know he loves me too, and to know that we are actually a lot alike.

2011-01-04T21:17:00.000-08:00

exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding

I lost my big sister to breast cancer when she was one week short of her 37th birthday. Diagnosed at 34, with 3 little boys under the age of 7, she fought valiantly for almost two years. The doctors subjected her to chemotherapy, radiation, radical surgery and even experimental treatments in an effort to save her life, but none of it was enough to conquer this dreadful disease. She was not only my sister, but my closest friend, my confidant, and my ally. The void in my life since her passing will never be filled, and I grow more firmly convinced of this fact with each passing year.

Several years after my sister's untimely death, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and it was quite advanced, but she was lucky enough to have a caring surgeon and an even more caring oncologist who believed a vibrant 71-year-old should be treated as aggressively as a young woman with children. Though it had been little more than ten years between my sister's passing and my mom's diagnosis, the advances in treatment during that interim were profound. Now 12 years after her own diagnosis, my mom is still around to give me grief.

An acquaintance of mine, having just found out about my family history, was quite amazed I hadn't had genetic testing done to see if I carry either of the breast cancer genes. Having one first-degree relative with the disease increased my risk by a sizable amount, but two first-degree relatives with breast cancer raised my likelihood of getting breast cancer into the stratospheric range. I just changed primary care physicians a couple of months ago, and during my establishing visit, mentioned the possibility of genetic testing. He concurred, and next thing I knew, I was having multiple vials of blood siphoned off. Of course, it couldn't be that simple. The lab had only sent 2 samples for genetic testing in the past SIX years, so there were many hoops to be jumped through, not the least of which was a denial by my insurance. This was to be expected; it's not a common test, and at $3500, is not something any insurance company is going to be ecstatic about paying. But after an appeal came a begrudging approval when my new doctor enumerated my rather lengthy list of risk factors.

Thus commenced "The Wait." I had already mentally prepared myself for the very real possibility I carry either BRCA1 or BRCA2, and had already formulated a plan of action. So I set about carrying on with my very busy life and tried to shelve any nagging worries about the test, and I was almost successful. I actually went several days without giving it more than a passing thought, and when I did think about it, I realized that I was being as proactive as was reasonable.

So when my phone rang at work last week, and the caller ID showed my doctor's number, I answered with a shaking hand, realizing 6 weeks had passed and this was most likely the call I had been waiting for. Without much preamble, they told me my results were back, and I DO NOT carry either breast cancer gene. My relief was so profound, my knees literally buckled, and I had to catch myself. To finally have an answer to a fear that has been gnawing at the back of my brain for so long ... I can't put it into words. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I was able to exhale all the fear and dread I'd been holding onto for so long.

I can't change the past. No matter how many times I've cried or prayed or begged, my sister is never coming back. But I can be here for her 3 dear sons, as they marry and start families of their own. And I can keep her memory alive in their hearts, as she is in mine.

2010-12-07T11:30:00.000-08:00

Less than stellar 2.0

I was released from my non-slumbering prison about 7:30 this morning and I'm STILL steaming over the unfortunate events of last night. Like a good little patient/inmate, I clambered into bed at 10p.m. And proceeded to have my tech (who had the personality of a piece of wet cardboard) enter my room every 5 to 10 minutes for the next TWO HOURS. First, the monitoring unit wasn't plugged into the wall properly. Then something wasn't plugged into the baseboard properly. Then something was unplugged behind the nightstand. Then the left leg electrodes weren't firing: swapped with the right leg. Then the right leg electrodes weren't firing. Wow. Really? I would have never guessed that...

And did I mention that while I was being hooked up to everything, I got to watch an informative little video about sleep apnea? And did I mention that the video very subtly mentioned the name of the company that manufactures the C-PAP machines used to treat sleep apnea? And that the video was -- drumroll please: produced by that very same medical manufacturer? But the piece de resistance was the tubes rammed into my nose. Much like having an oxygen line, except this had nothing blowing through it; instead, it was to monitor the flow of air coming out my nose. The tube wrapped behind each ear and was then tightened under my chin alongside the collection of electrodes already residing there. As if that weren't bad enough, they piggy-backed another tube directly over this one that hung down and touched my lips. Did they monitor my blood pressure? Because at this point, mine was SKYROCKETED. Who thought up this mess? In this day and age when I can start my car from inside the house or set my home security or my dvd recorder from my cell phone in another state, you mean to tell me this crap couldn't be monitored WIRELESSLY?

At this point, I pretty much figured out there would be no sleep for me. So I laid awake, tossing and turning for the next several hours. And did I mention I was breathing through my nose the whole time? See, folks who suffer through sleep disorders, for the most part, are mouth breathers. When their soft palette relaxes, their epiglottis drops down and blocks their airway, causing them to stop breathing. Which disrupts sleep and can cause heart arrhythmia. Or so the video merrily informed me. But I breathe through my nose most of the time, unless I'm congested. This was evidently not the results they anticipated nor wanted, because wet-cardboard returned to my room about 2a.m. to add YET ANOTHER TUBE INTO MY NOSE. Which successfully blocked the amount of room I had to inhale and therefore FORCED me to breathe through my mouth.

I. HAVE. HAD. IT. My blood pressure is pounding in my ears and I have to bodily restrain my own hands to keep from ripping this crap off and storming out. The only thing stopping me is the $200 check I just handed over to these bozos about 6 hours prior. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 3a.m. and out of pure exhaustion, I fall asleep. When someone (NOT wet-cardboard) enters my room about 7a.m. to tell me they're releasing me, I am up like a shot, informing him this was their one shot to monitor me. No second overnight stays. No "let's see how you sleep hooked up to the C-PAP." This was IT. Dunzo.

Off to Starbucks...

2010-12-06T19:23:00.000-08:00

I am in a less than stellar mood right now... I am sitting at The Center for Sleep at Baptist Hospital, waiting for someone to come hook up a bunch of electrodes and monitors to my head, my face, my chest and my legs. Quite conducive to sleep, non? When I voiced that opinion to one of my new doctors (a pulmonary doc who specializes in sleep disorders) he didn't see the humor. Guess sarcasm isn't big where he's from.

The room is ok... quite "motel-like." Until you see the bed completely covered with wires, electrodes, monitors etc. and then note the notice on the wall that reminds you you're being recorded on camera at all times. This is like a bad movie... How did I get here, you might ask? Well, my new primary doctor isn't allowing me to slide on ANYTHING. My former doc was a sweetheart, but after 10 years together, our comfort had become complacency, so when he moved out of town, I was faced with the prospect of obtaining a new physician. "I got a guy" on high recommendation, and he is quite pleasant, but HE MEANS BUSINESS. Don't mention anything to him if you don't want the issue dealt with. Pronto. He asked how I slept, and I deferred with humor. He laughed along with me and then persisted until I answered that I'm up anywhere from 2 to 4 times a night, but wake about every 15 minutes to change sleep positions. I've attributed it to pain in my back from multiple work-related injuries (and surgery years ago that was somewhat successful) and constant pain in both shoulders. But because I've been told recently that I snore (THAT'S a whole 'nother can of worms I might not discuss here for fear of incriminating the guilty complainer), primary doc raised the possibility of a sleep disorder.

So here I sit. And stew. I've just been informed that I need to be in bed by 10 p.m. ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME!?!?! The sleep doc had informed me I would need to maintain my normal sleep patterns. Which is: I go to bed between 11:30PM and 1A.M. Oh, this is going to be one big fat joy ride. And to top it all off? I'm barely in the door before they're hitting me up for $200. Someone needs to tell these folks that their patients would come in in a much better frame of mind if they at least bought 'em a cup of coffee first. Oh that's right: NO CAFFEINE.
--------------------------
The nurse/sleep tech just left. I wish I had a picture of me right now. I would post it. I look like some type of experiment gone bad. Like Frankenstein's less successful sibling. I have a band around my abdomen, another around my chest, electrodes on my legs, my shoulders, in my hair, under my chin, behind my ears, and ON MY FACE. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? I'm supposed to sleep like this? Oh yeah: and hanging around my neck is this contraption that all 24 wires plug into. Yep. TWENTY-FOUR wires.

Is it Tuesday yet?

2010-11-11T09:26:00.000-08:00

I've been busy the past several days with multiple endeavors, not the least of which is getting established with a new primary care physician (more on that later ... GRRR). But I also got an article written for our Nashville Harp Society website (as seen below). This just gives my loyal readers (all 3 of you) a little taste of a different style from me.

A Harpist to Watch

The Nashville Harp Society was privileged to have Heidi Van Hoesen Gorton as guest artist for our Fall 2010 meeting. As winner of the Young Professional Division of the American Harp Society (AHS) National Competition in June 2009, Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton serves as the current AHS Concert Artist, touring extensively throughout the country through 2011, all while completing her masters in harp performance from The Juilliard School and serving as principal harpist of the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton’s appearances have included recitals as well as taking part in workshops with local harp societies, and generally serving as a wonderful ambassador for the harp. Both Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton’s performance for NHS and her “question and answer” session following the recital served notice that this is definitely a young harpist to watch.

Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton opened with the three-part “Sonate” written by French-born Pierick Houdy, regarded as one of the five main composers of sonatas for harp of the twentieth century. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton was privileged to meet the naturalized Canadian Houdy at an international harp competition in France, and it was obvious in her playing that she admires the composer. Of special note was the bell-like quality of the central Lento. Up next was a modern take on an old theme: Kati Agocs’ “John Riley,” the first movement from ‘Every Lover Is A Warrior.’ Agocs is a modern classical composer and fellow Juilliard grad, who has taken the traditional Appalachian folk ballad “John Riley” and adapted it for harp. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton allowed the listeners to appreciate the bluegrass feel of “John Riley” while yet maintaining its classically lyrical line. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton closed the first part of her performance with Jean-Michel Damase’s “Sicilienne Variee.” Although not technically perfect, Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton showed with every note that this is her favorite piece for harp, and she played it with a style and passion that thrilled everyone present.

After a short intermission, Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton returned to the stage and gave us pieces from three of the greatest composers for harp. Up first was Marcel Tournier’s “La Voliere Magique, Opus 39.” The title of this piece roughly translates as “The Magical Aviary” and it was easy for the listener to appreciate the magical bird-like tones she evoked with the harp. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton’s next piece was probably the most notable of her recital: Grandjany’s arrangement of the Bach composition “Andante from Sonata No. 2 in A Minor.” This piece was originally composed for solo violin, but Grandjany reworked Bach’s masterpiece and it stands as one of the most beautiful works for harp being played today. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton infused “Andante” with such feeling, she made it obvious to everyone listening that it holds a special place in her heart: her mother studied under Grandjany and this particular piece was played at her parents’ wedding. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton concluded her performance with “Ballade, Opus 28” by Carlos Salzedo. Along with Grandjany, Salzedo is considered to be one of the most important performers, teachers and composers of music for harp, and this piece was a fitting end to a stellar recital.

Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton gave her listeners all they could hope to hear packed in one dynamic performance, and yet they wanted more, bringing her back to the stage for an encore. She finished her recital with a lighthearted and enjoyable rendition of Alfredo Rolando Ortiz’s “Red Merengue.”

While taking questions following her performance, Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton stressed to the audience the importance of playing from the heart and finding something to love about every piece one performs. It was obvious to all who attended that Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton is following her own advice. She plays each piece with such style and passion that it is easy to see she is doing what she loves to do, and that each composition holds a special place in her heart. And we, as listeners, are privileged to be along for the ride. We look forward to hearing more from this talented young artist as her career unfolds in the years to come.

2010-11-06T18:51:00.000-07:00

A sense of melancholy has overtaken me tonight. After a fairly uneventful day at work, I went to see my mom as I always do, and instead of sinking mindlessly into her couch to watch college football all afternoon, I decided to actually follow through with an idea that struck me earlier in the day: to take my mom book shopping with me.

For me, book shopping is a fairly standard thing: I am a voracious reader and therefore spend inordinate amounts of time at Books-a-Million, Barnes & Noble and the like. My mom is a voracious reader as well, except she has vast expanses of time to enjoy it, and yet no way to get her hands on anything new unless I provide it.

You see, my mom is 83 years old and no longer drives. She gave that up 5 years ago at the behest of my brother and me. I know it was the best decision -- slower reflexes and poor vision had made her a danger behind the wheel, but she is now at the mercy of others to go anywhere and do anything. I do my best; off days are spent running errands and fulfilling the obligations of numerous doctor's appointments. Mom's health isn't great, but it's the best I can hope for, for this 12-year breast cancer survivor. Chemo saved her life but ruined her bone marrow. And her immune system. And the entire chemical makeup of her body. And yet she survived against some pretty stiff odds. Her hearing is almost gone and she has trouble getting around, but my mom's mind is as sharp as ever. Because she reads.

She's worked her way through almost my entire library. She could probably give Maura Isles or Kay Scarpetta herself a run for their money after reading every Patricia Cornwell novel I own ((which is all of them.) She devoured Gregory David Roberts' 1000-page masterpiece Shantaram and barely came up for air until she was through. (I'm still somewhere about the 500-page mark three weeks later, but I have been busy.) This week it was The Help by Kathryn Stockett.

But my mom would probably be scandalized if she knew how much I spend on books. She lived through the Depression, and that struggle for survival is a scar that she carries deep within her soul. Money is not to be spent frivolously or excessively, and living on Social Security, she doesn't really have any extra to spend (and is too proud to allow me pick up the tab on much. Believe me, I try.) So I came up with the perfect solution: I took her to The Book Attic, a nifty and quite well-organized used book store. It was like seeing a little kid turned loose in a candy store with a pocket full of money. I can't believe I'd never thought of this before. And then I took her to BAM and when she protested, I told her about their sale tables and markdowns. SCORE!!

I was thrilled that such a simple afternoon could give her such pleasure, and yet I was disappointed in myself for not doing this sooner. I get so bogged down in all of the necessities of filling prescriptions, and going to the hospital for tests and checkups that I forget that this is also a necessity: an afternoon spent enjoying a basic pleasure. I realize that she won't be with me forever, and I need to make a solid effort to ensure that she gets to enjoy happy times that she so richly deserves.

2010-11-05T18:26:00.000-07:00

I had dinner with my wonderful cousin/great friend/traveling companion the other night, and she commented that I seem so busy and yet happy right now -- and she's exactly right. I have battled depression for a number of years now, and there have been a number of contributing factors, not the least of which is a general dissatisfaction with my job and the inherent stress that goes along with it. I have a really low tolerance for bull crap, and yet I work for the government and deal with the public -- both ready-made crap producers. Go figure... And yet something happened the other day that has given me a newfound appreciation of my vocation.

I have split days off in my current position -- Sundays and Tuesdays for the past 3 years. It has it's advantages, but one of the larger disadvantages is never feeling like I get enough rest (which greatly contributes to my depression.) So when a position came open at another location with weekends off, I bid on the job -- and then almost immediately had reservations/regrets. Indecisive much? I had actually thought it through before bidding and thought I was doing the right thing, but when the panic set in almost immediately, I'm like "What have I done?" And with 25 years of seniority and no additional training required, I was pretty sure I was going to get the job and then be forced to take it. But then amazingly enough, I didn't get the job and I was happy I didn't. (Some doofus with FORTY-ONE YEARS seniority got the position. Seriously, dude? Why are you not sitting on your porch in a rocking chair already? Or out shooting something like a good Southerner?)

The relief was almost instantaneous and overwhelming, and I realized I'm right where I need to be and right where I need to stay. I'm literally 150 yards from my house to work. I can go home every day at lunch and check on mom and spend time with her. I can leave work almost any time I need to if an emergency arises. And I've built an amazing rapport with some of my customers -- one friend and her husband gave me tickets to the Nashville Opera, another brings candy, several have loaned or given me books (since anyone who spends time around me realizes I am a voracious reader.) One customer even stood in a long line just to say "hi." No, she wasn't even mailing anything -- she wanted me to meet her Mom who was visiting from New York. How special is that?!?

So even though I might not love my job, I love many of the people. And I also love what it allows me to do. I get a lot of vacation time, therefore I am able to travel extensively, and it also pays well enough that I am able to afford to travel extensively. But with this newfound contentment has also come a feeling of freedom. Instead of constantly feeling bogged down, I have begun to be productive again. Hence the revival of this blog along with several other writing endeavors (most notably as editor of the Nashville Harp Society website.)

But this week also brought another dream to fruition: the co-founding of an independent record label with my immensely talented best friend. We are initially producing her music, but down the line hope to sign other like-minded artists. She will head up the artist development end, and I will be working on the marketing and promotions end of it, which will be yet another outlet for my writing skills (I've already composed her full-length bio as well as the more abbreviated version for promo packs.)

So... if you're in need of well-traveled, music-loving writer who can also package and mail anything you want to anywhere in the world, I'm your woman.

2010-10-28T10:15:00.000-07:00

I saw a dead body Saturday evening, and I just can't seem to shake the image from my mind. Oh, it's not the first time I've seen death -- in fact, I've seen it up close and personal more times than I care to admit. But this was somehow different...

-----------

I am on my way to dinner at a fancy restaurant with some of my upscale friends, and I'm running late as usual, when up ahead in my lane I see flashing blues that have just come to a screeching stop. Not wanting to become part of the traffic stop/wreck, I quickly brake and move to the right-hand lane, as do the two cars immediately ahead of me. As we creep by the scene, I see there is only one car involved, and the officer is assessing the driver of that SUV. While my mind wonders if it were a hit-and-run, I glance over, and that's when I see him -- a young black male lying face down, half in the street and half in the grass of the median. My immediate thought is to slam on my brakes, pull off the side of the road and run to this boy. But something registers in my brain and tells me it is too late -- he is already dead, isn't he? That's why no one is attending to him, isn't it?

But why didn't I stop? Sure, the cop was flagging every car forward impatiently, trying to clear the scene for the impending arrival of other officers, an ambulance which surely must be on it's way... but why didn't I stop? I'm not one to blindly obey orders if I think they're wrong, so why did I pull away as the officer was beckoning me to do? Someone needed to be there for him, to pluck the grass from his hair, to hold his hand, to caress his face one last time... Oh God, why didn't I stop?

-------------

Dinner was an enjoyable affair -- great food, fine wine, and stimulating conversation. But my thoughts kept wandering back to that scene on the side of the road. So I drank a little too much, talked a little too much, and tried to shake the image from my mind of a young black man, lying lifeless, face down in the edge of the street.

------------

His name was Damon Donelson, and he was 15 years old. A solid student at Hillsboro High School and an all-around good kid, his grandmother trusted him enough to take the city bus to the East side where he was to get together with some friends. When he didn't return home that evening, his grandmother began to worry, but quelled her fears by thinking he must be staying with friends. When she was unable to reach him the next day after repeated attempts, his grandmother knew something was wrong. Deep in her bones, she knew something had happened to Damon.

------------

It took Metro police 3 days to make the connection between the missing persons report filed by Damon's grandmother, and the young man with no identification and a dead cell phone who was struck and killed by an SUV on Saturday night as he attempted to cross the parkway.

I guess we'll never know what made Damon run in front of an oncoming car at dusk on a beautiful Saturday night in October. Maybe it was the feeling of invincibility we all suffered through at that age. Whatever the reason, it will be a long time before I forget the sight of this young man, lying lifeless in the road. But I want to remember Damon Donelson, in the hopes that next time, I'll stop.

2010-10-28T10:06:00.000-07:00

a strange night...

October 27th, 12:58

Let me begin by making the proclamation that Benadryl is a wonder drug. What prompted the rave review, you might ask? Allow me to recount the strange happenings of last night, and I'll see if you concur.

Yesterday was my day off, and instead of being productive in any way, shape or form, I spent the day piled up in bed, reading a wonderful writer I've discovered on LJ: snuffnyc. Her R&I fanfics are absolutelystellar, so I had to go back and read everything in order so as to be caught up for the next installment. Hey, I've got my priorities straight. OK, "straight" might not be the best choice of words, but I digress... About 11pm I called it a night, closed the Mac and drifted into peaceful sleep. Upon returning to bed after my 3am bathroom foray, I noticed that the palms of my hands were itching incessantly. And not just any ol' itch -- I'm talking "claw 'til you've drawn blood" kinda itching. After several minutes of this, the itching has spread to the soles of my feet. OK, this is getting kinda ridiculous. I can handle hand to hand combat, but now I've got 2 more appendages clamoring for my attention? This. Will not do.

I next progressed to palms and soles are blood red, fingers are swelling, along with elevated heart rate and rapid, shallow breathing, although I attribute these last 2 to dancing around my bedroom, stomping my feet on the hardwood floor. Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and the feet were late to the party. At this point, I'm looking for answers, so Google to the rescue. Newsflash: I'm suffering an allergic reaction of some sort. Wow, tell me something I don't know already. At this point, it's after 4am and I'm at a loss.

Time to call in the reinforcements. "Mom? Hope I didn't wake you, but I've got a problem." I then recounted the aforementioned symptoms, and she calmly tells me to get dressed and walk down to her place so she can see me. Living 2 doors up from Mom can be trying at times, but I've come to the conclusion one never gets so old as to stop needing Mom when they're sick. After a quick quizzing, Mom pronounces, "allergic reaction. Benadryl and call it a night." Hmmppfff... who needs Google when they've got Dr. Mom at their disposal?

I've now slept about 6 hours, I'm fuzzy from the drugs and I still itch a little, but this, I can manage. I'm now off to my house to investigate the cause of last night's histamine hysteria. Calling Rizzoli and Isles...

2008-05-31T22:16:00.000-07:00

I will no longer apologize for having neglected this baby -- it is what it is... Having posted over 80 articles in the past year on the SEC women's basketball website, along with working full time and assisting my Mom, I get to this one when time allows and the mood strikes. Guess what? I'm in the mood to write and I'm making the time because I love to share stuff I care about, which brings me to tonight's ramblings...

In case you don't know, I love music. Along with good books and well-written movies, music ranks right up there as a necessary essential in my life. I cannot imagine a single day going by that I don't listen to some type of music. My tastes are varied and far-flung. I have a special affinity for independent artists who refuse to sell their souls to the devil to get a record deal. Some of the most phenomenal music out there is being created by folks who will never be heard by much more than their families, friends and a few but loyal followers. But I have stumbled upon an artist who is starting to get some well-deserved recognition and I sincerely hope it continues. She is an immensely talented voice -- both lyrically and musically.

Discovering good new music always gives me a buzz, and the sources can be as varied as catching a snippet on the radio (although, for me, this happens rather infrequently since most of what I listen to rarely - if ever - receives airplay) or something one of my friends recommends. Because of my screenwriting aspirations, more than a few of my discoveries have come from movie scores. I am a firm believer that, in order for a movie to work, it must have the complete package -- and a fitting score is an oft overlooked essential. Just recently, I was watching "Blue Crush." Don't laugh -- although marketed to appeal to teenage boys with it's sexy young cast of toned and tanned females, it was a surprisingly passable film, due mainly to the stunning cinematography shot on location in Hawaii with a few additional surfing scenes shot in Fiji. The story, although simplistic and somewhat predictable, was refreshing in it's approach of showing an empowered young female who didn't need rescuing, nor was she relegated to the sidelines to cheer on her hero. SHE was the surfer facing her fears and the blue crush of the North Shore's Banzai Pipeline.

OK... about the music. In a particularly cute love scene between our heroine and her hunky guy, one of the most stunning songs is playing in the background. Being the pit bull I am when it comes to finding something I'm after, I impatiently scrolled through the soundtrack credits in search of the song that caught my ear. After a few swings and misses, I finally struck paydirt: the song in question is called "Destiny" and it was performed by a group I'd never heard of -- Zero 7. Further research led me to find out that Zero 7 is actually just two guys -- top session players/engineers/producers from London who bring in other top studio musicians to play with them, and they have a rotating lineup of some of the best European vocalists to front the band. After downloading enough songs to know I was hooked, I immediately went and purchased 3 Zero 7 cds. I was at once smitten with the vocals of both Tina Dico and Sia Furler, a striking 6-foot Danish blonde and a quirky Aussie/transplanted Londoner. The next cds added to my ever burgeoning collection were several by Dico, whose solo work is more acoustically geared than the synth-pop sound of Zero 7 - think Joni Mitchell and Dusty Springfield had a lovechild.

But the most utterly satisfying discovery in all of this is the quirky Furler. To visit her website is to step into a pantheon of child's play -- crude crayon drawings of stick figures, rainbows and sunshine. To see her perform live through the wonders of YouTube have prompted several to snidely remark she must be mentally challenged or on drugs. Or both. But make no mistake: when Furler opens her mouth to sing, nothing but pure genius pours out. She is an audiophiles's dream -- better live than on cd. (Which leads me to two conclusions: the next time I have the chance to see her live I must go, and secondly, her record producers should be shot on sight.) Sia Furler should be recorded live in concert for each and every cd she puts out, otherwise she's being over-engineered and way over-produced. (See the entire set-list on YouTube of her early morning live/in studio performance on KCRW's "Morning Becomes Eclectic" in 2007 for compelling evidence.) Furler is a goofball -- an overgrown kid who takes nothing seriously and cuts up incessantly between songs. She makes funny faces and dances around in her seat like a kindergartner in need of a restroom. Her live performance of "Buttons" on Jimmy Kimmel in January 2008 is the best use of glow-in-the-dark paint I've ever seen. For an immediate pick-me-up that never fails to put a smile on my face, I always watch this video.

But the most stunning performance of a song I've ever witnessed is her KCRW rendering of the semi-famous "Breathe Me." If anyone by now is beginning to scratch their heads and mumble to themselves "I think I've heard that before" it's because an extended mix of the song was playing over the final scene of the critically acclaimed Alan Ball-written"Six Feet Under." Many folks went clamoring to find the song after that stunning finale, but her KCRW live rendering is the best version she's ever performed. Furler goes from goofball to genius in 2.3 seconds as soon as the opening chords are played. In this extended version, there is a complete passage of her matching a cello note for note before launching into the most stunning vocals that are a window into her soul. It is a wail that is grief-filled and yet cathartic. No matter how many times I've seen this performance, it gives me goosebumps and makes me cry. The woman is sheer genius.

To truly appreciate the depth of emotion that Furler gives this performance, it helps to know a little about her background. This free-spirited Aussie set out to see the world with her boyfriend, and while he traveled ahead, she took a different path with plans to meet him in London in time for his birthday. Furler got sidetracked and called him, asking if it would be ok if she detoured through Thailand, even though that would push her arrival a week late and she would miss his birthday. He insisted it was fine, and on the night of his birthday celebration, Furler's first true love was tragically run over and killed by a cab he was hailing. With nowhere else to go and a heart full of grief, anger, guilt and a full gamut of emotions, Furler traveled on to London and moved in with his flatmates, where they tried to drown their grief in a haze of booze and drugs. Furler admits to the abuses and the ensuing breakdown she suffered, and it was only through years of therapy that followed that Furler was able to emerge as the singer you see and hear today.

Do yourself a favor: go to YouTube and watch this breathtaking performance, but if music speaks to your soul the way it does to mine, be prepared to cry. And then be prepared to smile that you've enjoyed a glimpse of the genius that is Sia Furler.

2007-12-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

'Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the south, every creature was stirring... and coming to the post office to mail all the Christmas gifts they procrastinated and didn't mail two weeks ago like they should have. Whoever told me the rest of this week should be easy and light with only a few customers -- you LIED. We had a line all day long, and needless to say, I was in a less than festive mood. I was ready for a few moments of peace, but I guess that will come at a yet to be determined time. The only improvement today was the customers seemed to be less agitated. They KNOW they're already late, so they're not stressin' it -- if the package gets there in 2 or 3 days, cool. If it gets there in a week or so for less money, that's even cooler.

My only contentious moment of the day came early on, and I had my say and that's all there is to it. One of the other clerks was pointing out the fact that next Monday should be interesting, with only 3 clerks there (one clerk will still be on vacation, and I won't be there because it's my New Year's holiday). He then asked was it possible I was working? My swift reply was "absolutely not." The established rules are as follows: management is supposed to post a holiday schedule no later than the Tuesday of the week prior to the holiday. Well, my new little abode doesn't post anything. I guess we're supposed to either ask what the staffing needs are, or we're supposed to be mind readers. While I'm capable of both, I refuse to do either. I could ask, but why should I have to? I could "mind read", and since I was in management myself a good number of years ago that's rather more simple than you'd think, but again -- why would I do that? I'm just a little level 5 peon. I refuse to do the job that a level 15 supervisor or a level 17 station manager should be doing. It's extremely simple to post a holiday schedule -- takes less than 5 minutes, and that's if the printer has to warm up. If management is going to willfully not post one, the least they can do is give me verbal notification within the allotted time frame. I would, on occasion, like to make some plans, and I need to have some reasonable amount of time in which to make them. I don't think that's too much to ask, and the Employee/Labor/Management handbook agrees. It's real simple: no tell me, me no workee.

One of these days, my new management is going to catch on to something: I'm relatively easy to get along with (hey! no snickering), I'm extremely hard-working and I'm self-motivated, but I'm a stickler about one thing -- MY time. I work my butt off while I'm there, but I'm not married to the place. They already get 8 or more hours of my day, and I view that as a necessary evil until I hit the lottery or get a publishing deal. I refuse to give them any more of my time than I must. And if management insists on requiring my services for overtime or holidays, then I'm going to require they do it in a timely manner. End of story.

2007-12-25T16:41:00.000-08:00

And now for a break from our regularly scheduled rantings... Today is Christmas, and after yesterday's last minute shopping, last night's last minute gift wrapping, this morning's slaving away in the kitchen... Ha! I almost had you on that one... No, this non-cooking heifer did not produce any culinary concoctions, although I DID cut up fruit for nearly 2 hours for the aptly named fruit salad. Hey, that counts, doesn't it? After all the mad-dash preparations, my wonderful family arrived at 11 a.m. for a mid-day brunch-y sorta thing at Mom's house. Why, with Mom being so sick, did we not move the gathering to my humble abode, you might ask? Well, for a variety of reasons. First, and foremost, you can barely get in the door of my place for all the "stuff" that needs to be picked up/cleaned up (I have a bad habit of starting projects and getting distracted mid-way through, and their skeletal remains haunt my abode like a bad scene from "Tales From the Crypt.") Secondly, I am currently owned by 4 cats (cat people know what I'm talking about -- no human owns a cat. Cats only deign for us lowly humans to provide them fancy feasts and princely palaces at their behest. They are only gracing us with their presence as long as they see fit.) and numerous members of my family are allergic to the feline furr balls (why wasn't I blessed with such an allergy?), so family gatherings of any kind at my place are out of the question. Which doesn't exactly get me off the hook, since I've spent quite a few spare moments over the past several days helping to clean my Mom's place.

Which brings me to my point: I'm exhausted. Deep-down bone-weary I-could-sleep-'til-New-Years tired. Of course, this state has been aided and abetted by a sinus infection/bronchial crud I can't seem to shake. I initially contracted this mess more than a month ago, got better, and then got it again. I am on the upswing, but Mom is on her second go-round, and I'm actually quite worried about her. She spent 2 solid weeks cleaning and cooking in preparation for today's gathering, and I couldn't convince her that not a single solitary soul in our family nor any of our friends cares whether she cleaned the dust bunnies out from under her bed, nor whether she got down on her hands and knees to scrub behind the commode. Christmas is about gathering with family, watching the little ones squeal with delight over their presents (only to play with the boxes they came in) and eating ourselves into a carb-laden stupor. Each of those things can be accomplished quite easily in a comfortably clean house (which my mom's home is -- ALWAYS) instead of one that has been spit-shined like the tip of a West Point plebe's shoe. But to no avail. Mom has dusted, vacuumed, rearranged, polished, and scrubbed herself into a frenzy over the past 2 weeks, all for a 3-4 hour gathering of 16 people, including the 2 of us. And of course, it looks like a hurricane hit as soon as all the presents have been opened, so why go to all the trouble? I guess I just don't care enough about stuff like that, which might explain why my house is ready for condemnation at any point -- I'm just waiting for them to tack the notice on the front door. I guess the answer is somewhere in the middle. I certainly need to care more, and she needs to care a little less. But isn't that one of the great lessons of life? Compromise. Meeting in the middle. Making concessions. I think that is one of the principles I'm going to add to the list of things I need to work on in the upcoming year. That, and cleaning my house, so I'm not constantly peering out the front door in fear of seeing codes approaching with a hammer and nail and a little pink notice.

2007-12-24T07:25:00.000-08:00

So, I worked in furthest reaches of Dante's Inferno for several months, cursing my very existence, when I got up the courage to actually pursue my writing on a semi-professional level. (See below post regarding my sports writing at www.secwb.com). Although it allowed me to get the creative juices flowing again, I am somewhat limited in my subject choices (it's a website devoted to SEC women's basketball, so... yeah... I don't exactly have free license to post about local politics or the plethora of good movies coming out around the holidays). Anyway, despite it's necessary limitations, it was good to write again, especially about a subject on which I am somewhat conversant. In the meantime, I continued to gaze longingly at the bid board, praying for ANYTHING to come up that would get me out of this hell, when suddenly, I saw it: a job I had coveted for YEARS. In my little corner of the 'hood there exists a quaint little post office that is the smallest in all of Nashvegas, and said post office happens to be at the end of my street. Approximately 150 yards lie between my front door and the back door of this little outpost. Why hadn't I bid to this job before now, you might ask? Well, I had tried unsuccessfully in years past and been outbid, because this little PO is known affectionately as the retirement post office. It's such a great spot to work that most people go there and stay 'til they retire (or die, whichever comes first). Needless to say, positions there don't come up for bid often (about once every five years or so) and my seniority in times past wasn't enough to get me in the door, but something told me this time around might be different. So I placed my bid and waited with baited breath. Next thing you know, I find out IT'S MINE! I GOT THE JOB!!!

Now before you think I got to leave Dante's Den anytime soon, let me explain how things work at the big P.O. I had to first scheme qualify (for those not in the know, that translates to learning every street in my little zip code and memorizing which carrier delivers the mail to that particular street), and then after passing that test, I was mandated to pass a class that teaches me all the intricacies of being a window clerk. Surprisingly enough, there are a LOT of rules and regulations to serving customers across the window, moreso than just the common courtesies like not sneezing on anyone nor muttering expletives when they do the most heinous things, like belching in your face. "Service with a smile" -- that's our motto. (Well, it's really not, but it should be, since we're negatively scored by mystery shoppers if we don't greet our customers in a friendly manner. And don't EVEN get me started on THAT waste of time and moola. "Mystery shoppers" my big fat patootie.... AARRRGGGGHHHHH!) Actually, all the rules and regs are not so surprising since I DO work for a bureaucratic governmental red-tape-producing entity.

I was awarded the job in late March, and went to scheme training soon after. Since I've lived in that zip code all my life, training shoulda been a breeze. And it was, until I went to review for the test and there were discrepancies between the review material and the scheme I'd learned. Long story short, the scheme had changed over the past few years (streets added, names changed, carrier "splits", etc.) and I had been blissfully unaware that I'd spent four days learning the older incorrect scheme. No problem. Let's just start over on the new one and it'll be a breeze, too. Thank HEAVENS I had a great trainer who was wise enough to credit my training time to me in the proper way without me having to go all postal on him. I passed with flying colors and was all gung ho to get the window clerk training started. So I waited, and waited. And waited. And waited some more for the call or correspondence that would let me know when the next class would start. Now I'm an impatient sorta girl (bet you wouldn't have guessed that, now would ya?) so I commenced to calling the training office myself. Only problem with that is, not a single solitary soul in that overpaid/underworked office has a freakin' CLUE about scheduling training classes except for ONE GUY and he's out of the office for the next TWO WEEKS. I find it more than a little ridiculous that only one guy in the ENTIRE Mid-state area schedules training, and he's famous for two things: 1) spending an inordinant amount of time on the golf course and 2) NEVER returning phone calls. Makes him infinitely qualified for the job, don't you think? So I dug around a little and found out that there was a scheduled rate increase to take effect May 14 and they were dragging their collective feet about training anyone until after that date. Makes sense, but you COULDA TOLD ME instead of me having to snoop around like the man from U.N.C.L.E. to glean that valuable info. Of course, it's a two week training class, and CERTAINLY no one is going to schedule training that would conflict with Memorial Day, so ... you get the picture. This job I got in March? I finally got trained for in JUNE. And people wonder why we have rate increases? It's to pay the salary of the brainiacs who come up with such nonsense.

Okay... another attack of postal-induced indigestion is coming on, so I'll get all Zen for a moment and post more later...

2007-12-23T22:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, I realize there are a few small holes to be filled in as far as what's been happening with me since I last posted about my job change, so here's another year's worth of happenings crammed into an overstuffed nutshell. I left the relative comfort of my night shift job (I was working for the best supervisor EVER, I was surrounded by good buddies who kept it fun, and I'm a night owl at heart) for the relative hell of a day shift job at the Annex. It may have looked good on paper, but boy, WAS I WRONG. I joined a crew made up of crotchety old codgers with a loon or two thrown in for good measure, working under the most horrid conditions for a supervisor who used to mess around with one of my fellow workers back in the day. Sounds like a dream job, huh? If you enjoy NIGHTMARES. I tried to make the best of it, but it took all my efforts to drag myself to work everyday. Needless to say, I found the only way to slog through this daily grind was to listen to my I-Pod non-stop for 8 hours a day and tune everything else out. I had worked at this facility several years before, but that was a day at the spa compared to THIS. During that foray, I only worked six hours a day, surrounded by the best crew ever. We had a fun bunch back then, and we cut up and joked around and virtually ate our way through the holidays. (Most crews brought snacks around Christmas, but our bunch brought goodies the entire month of December, and for ALL holidays, including Keith Richards' birthday. Hey... it's a holiday to some...)

This time around was sheer hell, I tell ya. Understaffed, overworked, and the air vents I had written a formal complaint about two years prior STILL HADN'T BEEN CLEANED. Instead of just being black and grimy looking, they now had growths hanging out of them that reminded me of that old B-movie classic "The Blob." The headaches, sinus infections and nosebleeds began again almost immediately, so I launched into another losing battle to get them cleaned, all to no avail. What is it with these people? They'd rather fight tooth and nail to keep from doing the right thing instead of just sucking it up. LITTERALLY. I mean, how freaking difficult is it to change the 28 air filters once a month instead of bi-annually, and then get a fork-lift and shop-vac the vents? Do you know what official response I was given to my formal complaint? Someone had to be TRAINED to clean the vents... RIGHT... And once they got them trained how to use a shop-vac, then they were going to teach them how to wipe the boogers out of their noses, I'm sure. Has anyone EVER heard such a ridiculous excuse before? Oh that's right... I work for the blithering idiots of the USPS, an organization that wrote the book on stupid. Lest anyone think I'm overreacting, let's just say that my 22 years of service make me an expert. There's a REASON the term "going postal" is now part of the American lexicon. Hmmm.... I've just figured out the title to the expose I'm going to write about my 22 years of federal hell. Look for it at a bookstore near you in the near future, after I've sufficiently zippoed all my work-related bridges...

Enough for tonight... I'm getting indigestion just THINKING about the place...

2007-12-23T18:20:00.000-08:00

Almost another year has passed and I'm finally returning to my little blog. I decided to get an early jump on New Year's resolutions and make yet another sincere effort to write as close to daily as possible. Lest anyone thinks I haven't put thought to keyboard in a while ("pen to paper" is OH SO last century), I got an actual writing gig this past spring, and although it's not paying any bills yet (actually, it's not paying ANYTHING yet), I'm beginning to get my name out there a little bit. How it all came about is rather interesting, so I'll recount it here.

For anyone who doesn't know me, let me just enlighten you to the fact that I LOVE sports, but am most particularly a fan of women's college basketball. I have been a die-hard fan of Vanderbilt athletics since childhood, and they happen to have one of the more talented women's basketball teams in the country. They compete in the very best conference in the nation (the Southeastern Conference, of course) and I spent many years attending every home game and quite a few games on the road. I wound up becoming best buds with two of Vandy's best players ever, and the late 80's through about 2000 were consumed with all things hardwood. Alas, I became disenfranchised with their jerk of a coach and the way he treated his players, so my admiration waned and I began to pursue other interests. Although I let my season tickets lapse, I continued to attend the SEC tournament each March. With the caliber of teams competing in this league (each season, anywhere from 5 to 7 of the 12 schools are chosen to play in the NCAA Tournament), the SEC tourney offers some of the best basketball to be seen anywhere in the country. I get to OD on 11 games played over a four day period and I LOVE IT!

So even though I didn't get to attend a single home game this past season, I watched Vandy anytime they were on tv and happily made my way to Atlanta for the SEC tourney the first week of March this year. The fact that I got to spend time with my best friend who moved there in January, along with renewing ties to friends who support the South Carolina Gamecocks (no tasteless jokes from ME... nope, not a one) were just added bonuses to four days of basketball bliss. Because I had started blogging here, I had also begun to write a few things on myspace as well, and I decided to compose a few thoughts about the tournament and post them on my myspace since I had better traffic there (because, yes... at heart, all writers want to be READ.)

Upon returning home, I had to drive my 80-year-old mom to her dentist's appointment (mom gave up driving about 2 years ago, and all of Nashvegas' roads, intersections, parking lots and sidewalks are much safer because of it), and because I was tired from the trip home that morning, I just snoozed in the Jeep while she got cleaned and polished. About an hour later, Mom climbed in and said, "Dr. Lancaster asked about you," which was not at all surprising, since A) he's my dentist too and B) I haven't been to see him in about two years. (Yeah, I know... the Tooth Fairy is somewhere greedily rubbing her hands together at the prospect of having an adult victim to call on in the near future...) I assumed he wanted to see me ASAP and I muttered something about being busy when mom surprised me with "No, he asked me if you still hate your job." OKAY.... Let's just say that it hit me like a ton of dental floss that the ONE THING my DENTIST, whom I haven't seen in TWO YEARS, remembers about me is that I HATE MY JOB. Is it possible that maybe -- just maybe -- I've complained a little too vociferously about my own little personal postal hell if that is what people remember about me? Not my charming personality or my quick wit or my stunning intelligence or my ability to be conversational on a wide array of subjects... NOOOOOOO..... I'm the chick who HATES HER JOB. I tried to laugh it off, but moms have a way of recognizing whether a chuckle is truly sincere or just a cover for irritation. Needless to say my little titter was certainly the latter and not the former, and mom, in her infinite wisdom, recognized this immediately. Of course, mom herself has been badgering me for YEARS to either get out of this job or manufacture some coping mechanisms, so I chalked it up to her predictability that she asked, "If you could walk away from the post office right now and choose any job in the world, what would it be?". What WASN'T so predictable was my answer: before I even had a nanosecond to process my response, I blurted, "I'd be a women's basketball sportswriter." And while I glanced in the back seat to see WHO had actually burst forth with that little verbal fart, I realized that it had escaped my own lips. And I also quickly realized that any response that exited my mouth that rapidly without being spot-checked by my brain was probably straight from my heart. And why not? It combined two of my greatest loves: women's basketball and writing.

So, after returning home and contemplating a return to hell/work after 5 glorious days off, I seized upon a novel idea: my brain had been so firmly rooted in old-school ideas of newspaper and magazine sports coverage that it suddenly struck me that I could register a domain name and write about SEC women's basketball to my heart's content on the internet. I mean ... HELLO ... if hundreds -- nay, thousands -- of people log on daily to read about and discuss the trials and travails of motherhood or pet ownership or any other of a jillion different subjects, why couldn't I write about a subject I love so much and which is becoming ever more popular? So I set about choosing the most logical domain name which would garner the most hits (Repeat after me: writers write to be read), but there arose one itty-bitty problem: it was already taken. By a site that was trying to do what I wanted to do. Hmmm...what to do, what to do... In a Sopranos world, I'd buy 'em out or bump 'em off, but I don't think that type of logic works in cyberspace. So I did the next best thing: if you can't beat 'em, JOIN 'EM. I perused the site and had to admit it was structured very professionally, with a gorgeous design and intricate layout. It had so many levels I got lost, but the one thing I did seize on was the fact they appeared to be a little short on writers. To do a site such as this justice, the ideal situation would be to have "beat writers" for each of the 12 schools, and then have featured columnists tackle a variety of pertinent subjects. While wandering through the site I noticed a link to contact them, and on a lark, I sent an e-mail offering my expertise. After hitting the "send" button, I was immediately seized with a stomach cramp that was the result of that panic feeling, wondering "what the *#@! did I just do?!?" A day passed, and then another, and I had begun to breathe easier but yet admitted to myself that I was more than a little disappointed when the unthinkable happened: I got a response from the website owner, wanting to read some of my stuff. But before I could do my own idiotic version of a celebratory dance around the computer, I realized I didn't have anything to submit that was really for public consumption on a commercial website. The stuff I'd written on myspace was fun and fact-filled, but more a personal blog than true sports writing. I wound up exchanging numbers and phone calls with the owner/webmistress, and after much disclaiming, I told her how to navigate to myspace and read my SEC recaps/opinion pieces. When I didn't hear back from her after a coupla days, I figured she wasn't interested, and despite my growing disappointment, I had to give myself a congratulatory pat on the back for even putting myself out there like that, when voila: lightening struck twice. The owner got back to me, liked my style, and asked me to join her staff. The rest, as they say, is history.

In the past 8 or 9 months, I've written over 40 articles and am now the featured columnist at www.secwb.com in addition to being the Vanderbilt beat writer. Drop on by and give me a read if you'd like to see what I've been up to.

2007-01-28T12:46:00.000-08:00

I'm in such a state of flux right now... Those who know me know that I've been in a really pissed off place in my head about uncontrollable events at my job. Most also know I took matters into my own hands and put in bids for a new job. Well, my supervisor and great friend called me yesterday afternoon with the news: I got a new job. I will be rejoining the human race: I will be working DAYS. 10:30 AM to 7 PM. Not a bad deal; off early enough in the evening to actually go out and have fun, not in too early in the morning to prevent going out the night before and having fun...

So why am I less than ecstatic right now? I Hate Change. I know all the cliches already, so don't bother reciting the litany: "change is good", "change is inevitable", "without change there is no growth"... blah, blah, blah... Blah. BLAH. Have I said this before? Let me say it again: I HATE CHANGE. I know this makes no sense, especially when I've become disenchanted and unhappy in my current circumstances. But they're MY circumstances, dammit, and there is some comfort level that comes with ownership. I did what I was supposed to do: I made the mental list of pros vs. cons, going vs. staying, and the pros of going outweighed the cons of staying. BUT THERE WERE "PROS" ON THE SIDE OF STAYING ALSO. And now they are rearing their ugly little heads, sticking out their tongues and razzing me, making me question whether I made a good decision or not.

Let me list a few so you can join me in my pity party. I will be leaving behind 2 of the best friends anyone could ever have and a gaggle of other good buddies. I have had the good fortune of working for an amazing supervisor for the past 2 years, which is extremely rare in my job. In my 21-year federal career, I can name my truly excellent supervisors on one hand and have three fingers left over. She is very good at what she does, she is fair, and above all, she genuinely cares about her employees. But more than being an exemplary supervisor, she has become one of my best friends. It is she who encouraged, cajoled, and eventually pushed me off the cliff into counseling. And I am a better person for it. I will be eternally indebted to her for helping me see this was the only logical decision to be made at that point in my life. The other great friend is someone I only renewed my connection with in the past several months. We used to work together years ago, but as time and circumstances separated us, we lost touch. When she transferred to my shift several months ago, it was like coming home to an old friend -- the kind you can pick up the conversation with in mid-sentence years later. She is a joy to be around; she puts a smile on my face the minute I walk through the door. She sees the humor and the beauty in ordinary life and she makes those around her take time to appreciate it as well.

When contemplating the reality that I will no longer be working for and with these two, it makes me rather reticent. I feel like I'm heading out on a high-wire across a great chasm, and I don't have either of them to steady me. But if I listen closely, each is cheering me on as I venture to a new place. I have made a solemn vow to not lose touch with either of them. Great friends are difficult to find in this world, and even more difficult to keep. But it is worth whatever time and effort I must put forth to make it happen, because I am a better person for having each of them in my life.

2007-01-24T09:44:00.000-08:00

As I'm settling in to sleep this morning, I do so with a sense of happiness and well-being (For those of you who know me well, this isn't a particularly normal state for me... I'm usually agitated or obsessing about something). I really must say that when I take the time and make a conscious effort to remember and put into practice all the helpful little hints my counselor has been giving me the past year or so, I really can improve my mood/outlook. Instead of stressing out about the pile of laundry I tripped over as I entered my back porch/laundry room this morning, I instead focused on the fact that my neighbors' 2 (very large) dogs were roaming around my back yard. I love these 2 fuzz-buckets; they are extremely friendly -- in a warm, gangly, slobbery sort of way. So after letting my own 2 dogs out, I set out on a cold winter's morning adventure. Despite knowing my efforts would be rebuffed, I called to Simon and Lucy in hopes theirs would be a short-lived prison break. No dice. Lucy came running to me, rolled over to have her belly rubbed, and as I reached for her collar too quickly, was off like a shot, chasing after her companion Simon, who had barely given my calls and whistles a second glance. Simon is a much more accomplished escape artist; none of this neighborly trap-laying for HIM. Leash in hand, I headed up the street hoping they hadn't ventured too far, since the current temp was hovering around 30 degrees and I was wearing my usual uniform of shorts. Blessedly, they had only gone about 8 or 10 houses away, and had even made the mistake of entering someone's fenced back yard via their open driveway gate. After trespassing into this unknown neighbor's yard and closing their gate quickly, I was able to wrangle both dogs relatively easily, considering Lucy (on the leash) weighs about 65 or 70 pounds and Simon (being held only by his collar) weighs well over 100 pounds. But they both marched home with me like perfect little soldiers. My neighbor was so ecstatic after I put them back inside their pen that she cooked me breakfast.

I have such an enjoyable time with my neighbor. She's a stay-at-home mom who works far harder than anyone working outside the home. She's a phenomenal photographer, a talented writer, an upholsterer, a creative quilter, a poet ... is there anything this woman isn't capable of doing? She's a wonderful wife and mother, blessed with an awesome husband and 2 beautiful children. She's one of those people who GET IT. She may not know what the latest political crisis in the world is, but she takes the time to marvel at the beauty of a perfectly formed leaf. She may forget to take the time to brush her own hair, but she will sit down to read to her children, or play with them in the yard, or take them on adventures. She cares about the things that really matter: being a wonderful partner to her husband, and a mother who loves her children enough to want them to be the best they can be: loving, creative, respectful, adventuresome, caring human beings. If they follow her example, they will have the best teacher they could ever have. Any time I get to spend in her presence lets me know I am blessed. I am blessed to have her not only as my neighbor, but as my friend. So as I pillow my head this morning, I do so with a smile on face and a feeling of happiness at having been able to spend some time with my friend.

2007-01-22T12:36:00.000-08:00

Well, well, well... I've made the big leap. Here's hoping it's a successful one. After much thought and contemplation, I've decided to bid to another job. The reasons are myriad -- too many years spent on night shift which have left me sleep-deprived, too much time wasted in a job I don't really like just so I could work for a supervisor I love and respect. Believe me -- this latter reason counts for more than you'll ever know, because decent managers/supervisors are few and far between. Those that actually care about and listen to their employees... Hmmm.... I've been with the Federal hell-hole for 21 years, and this is only the second supervisor I've EVER had who I pledged my undying loyalty to. So why am I bidding out, you might ask? The ultimate driving force behind my decision is the fact that I am fed up with the latest happenings at my facility. Without boring you with the particulars, suffice it to say there has been some poop-slinging going on, and I had the unfortunate bad luck to get caught in the cross-fire. So as I sit here, proverbial poop dripping off my face, I've come to the realization I'M NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE. I tried reasoning with our facility manager (to no avail); I availed myself of union representation -- those results were far short of spectacular. In fact, our local union is directly responsible for firing the first poop volley in this little shit-storm. A local rep (who shall remain nameless to protect the oh-so guilty) took a statement from a 7 month employee who was unhappy she was having to work so damn hard during Christmas and ran with it. Poor baby... mwah, mwah, mwah. Try stepping into MY shoes. I worked 14 hour days for a month, part of which time was spent straightening out messes made by this little employee with a whopping seven months of experience. There's nothing quite like the exhaustion of going in at 11 p.m. and getting off at 1:30 the next afternoon. The first week was survivable -- body held up ok, just never enough sleep. By the middle of the second week, my feet were hurting half-way through the night, despite wearing the latest Nike Shox (which look like moon-walking boots on springs). Weeks 3 and 4 brought such excruciating pain, I'm still not sure I didn't form the beginnings of stress fractures in both feet. Pain was instantaneous the moment I rolled out of bed following a short winter's nap and my feet touched the floor.
But back to our little resident trouble-maker and her fait accompli. This wench has been trouble since the first day she walked through the door. She is abrasive, moody, ill-tempered, and a COMPLETE know -it-all. Once partially trained for a job, she thinks she knows everything there is to know about the position. She does not listen. You can be explaining something to her and she anticipates (99% of the time incorrectly) what you are going to say next. So more time is wasted trying to undo the 5 thoughts that have popped into her pea-sized skull than if she had just SHUT UP AND LISTENED IN THE FIRST PLACE. Can you tell I'm more than a little fed up? Well, she got it in her head that she was being discriminated against by having to do the job she was assigned through Christmas. Wake up and smell the napalm: this has absolutely NOTHING to do with the color of your skin and absolutely EVERYTHING to do with the fact that you have SEVEN MONTHS on the job and the rest of us have anywhere from 12 to 21 YEARS. DEAL WITH IT. We work in a job where duty assignments are dictated by seniority. Or so I mistakenly thought...
Back to the little union rep... My gripes with him are 3-fold: 1. he took a statement from an employee he doesn't represent (he is assigned to an entirely different work area and our little lady in question bypassed her own representatives to go to someone she felt would be more ... amenable to her "plight") 2. he did not properly investigate to see if her claims were correct, ask questions of the parties involved, or address the issue with the supervisor 3. he took the issue all the way to the TOP of the local labor/management chain, instead of starting at step one as local protocol dictates. Let's just say the resident bozos in labor/management have their heads planted so far up their own arses, they haven't seen how the REAL world works in YEARS. Past practice has always been that the senior clerk had to be OFFERED higher level work if the position was available, but had the option to pass that position down to someone with lesser seniority. Only logical, n'cest pais? Well, bear in mind, logic plays NO PART in most decisions by the powers that be, and this is no exception. Our local labor/management brainiacs have decided that "past practice" is incorrect and that we've actually been violating the contract for 21 or more years. ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?
So what this all boils down to is this: because I am the senior qualified clerk on my shift, I am being FORCED to fill in high level positions whenever the primary jobholders are out (which is QUITE often) even though there are other qualified clerks who WANT to do the jobs and who are quite capable of doing them and doing them well. I brought it to my manager's attention that, FOR THE GOOD OF THE COMPANY, I have put myself in a lower-paying position that ultimately has had more bearing on our overall success. He appreciated the argument, smiled in my face, and then stabbed me in the back.
So... I. BID. OUT. I may regret it. I may get stuck in a sucky job for several months or even more, but -- unlike most of the people I work for and with -- I have principles. I'm sticking to mine, and I'm bidding out based on them. If I don't like what I get, new jobs are posted every month. And they're awarded BASED ON SENIORITY. At least it still counts for SOMETHING...

2007-01-20T12:38:00.000-08:00

Well, it has been nine months since my last post. (Sorry, I couldn't resist that beginning...) Good grief. I could have gone through an entire gestational period and given birth to an urchin in the length of time I have neglected this baby. So I refuse to think of it as broken promises or a resolution renewed. Instead, it is just a new beginning. And something about it seems altogether promising.

I'm not sure exactly what has gotten the creative juices flowing again. I've seen 2 excellent movies in the past week; both were well-written & well-acted. I think I must be a writer at heart to look at a movie in that order. Anytime I view a movie that was based on an excellent screenplay, I think to myself "I could do that..." Purely delusional thoughts, I know, but something about the notion gives me the warm fuzzies. And I must admit, while other people play air guitar and imagine themselves as the next great American Idol, I envision myself at Sundance. Or better yet: the Oscars. Strolling down the red carpet, trying not to get all googly-eyed over the REAL stars. Who should I get to design my tuxedo: should I go with the funky hipness of Dolce & Gabana or the classic elegance of Gucci?

Ok. Back to reality. The aforementioned 2 films were/are "The Queen" and "Blood Diamond." I thoroughly enjoy good films but too often procrastinate making the trek to the theater until it's too late. All too frequently, it seems the truly good movies are only showing on a few screens clear across town or are only around for a week or two. Which could possibly be indicators of several different things: 1. the more intelligent movie-goers reside across town (I hope this isn't the case and that theater owners take note of the residential makeup of Inglewood and plan to open a hip theater in our area for quality and independent fare) 2. the majority of movie-goers are teenage boys whose IQs are only slightly larger than their ... shoesize, and this Friday night/mall crowd mentality would much prefer to see a blonde bimbo being slashed than dare put forth the effort to actually contemplate a world outside Playboy pinups or comic book heroes gone awry.

My faith in the intelligence of younger movie-goers is being somewhat restored by 2 of my nephews (who just happen to be brothers.) One is living in Amarillo with his sweet wife and their new baby, and despite the demands of starting a new family, they still manage to get out to see GOOD films. I enjoy our late-night conversations about what we've each seen lately, who his directorial faves are, and upcoming productions he's read about. And his younger brother has become my regular movie companion of late. He works on a catastrophe team for an insurance company, and although he is always on call for the next big disaster, our weather has been catastrophe-free for about 6 months. He is also girlfriend-free at the moment (which I'm sure will end all too quickly), so that gives us some much-enjoyed time together. It makes me feel good that my nephews still think I'm cool enough to hang out with without embarassment.

About the movies...
"The Queen" is that rare film that deftly handles a true event whose media coverage rivaled any of the late 20th century, and it tells the story with aplomb. Stephen Frears incorporates actual film footage of Princess Diana seamlessly throughout the story without it seeming tawdry or gruesome. And Helen Mirren is Queen Elizabeth. She inhabits the role so completely, she makes one forget she's acting; that's what great acting is all about. Just when the viewer wants to hate her for her seeming inability to feel ANYTHING, she redeems the character with her display of compassion and ultimate sorrow for the ruthlessly pursued buck which was eventually hunted down and killed. But just as the viewer feels her empathy for the wild animal which met a such horrid end, you recoil in exasperation when you realize she shows more feeling for an animal than she does for a human being -- the mother of her grandsons -- who was pursued ruthlessly and ultimately hunted down to her own death. Fabulously written and flawlessly acted.

"Blood Diamond" is that increasingly rare movie that draws the viewer in with it's star power/A-list cast, but then rewards us with a story that educates and enlightens us to the plight of a world outside our own cushy existence. It makes the viewer THINK. In this consumer-driven Western society we live in -- a society driven to excess in Jaguars and BMWs, while wearing the latest designer duds and talking on I-Phones held in diamond-encrusted hands -- what price are we actually paying for our excesses? Do we consider the southeast Asian sweatshops our name-brand clothes were made in? Do we think of the underpaid factory workers who produced the nuts and bolts for our Hummers and Rovers but whose own families will never own a car of their own? Do we contemplate the actuality that lives may have been lost for us to sport that "bling-bling" on our fingers, ears and wrists? My dear friend and neighbor knows me for the choco-holic I am, and she gifts me periodically with some very fine chocolate. But what sets this chocolate apart is the fact that it is produced by an eco-friendly company who then donate a portion of their profits towards the conservation of endangered species, habitats and indigenous peoples of the areas from which their chocolate came. THIS is the type of contemplative consumerism we all need to practice. Sure, it takes a little longer to research and seek out responsible companies who actually care about more than their profit margin, but the bottom line is this: it matters. Maybe, just maybe, with the box-office draw of a big name like DiCaprio, more people will leave the theater with a better sense of the actual cost of what we desire, and not just how much money it takes to purchase it.

2006-03-11T13:40:00.000-08:00

It has been 2 weeks since my last post, but I refuse to admit defeat so easily or so readily. For although I haven't followed through with my intentions to write every day, I can honestly say that I've thought about writing every day. Hey... it's a start.

Honestly, I haven't been able to do much of anything these past few weeks if it has required anything more than thought, because my life has been reduced to a vicious cycle of work/eat/sleep/work/sometimes not eat/sleep, with sleep comprising anywhere from 8 to 12 hours of any given 24 hour day for me. Quite a drastic difference for those of you who know me as the maven of sleep deprivation. I have spent the better part of my adult life surviving on 4 to 5 hours of sleep a day -- occasionally more, often less. So what has caused this startling shift into slumbering unconsciousness? The easy response is Amitriptylin and Dicyclomine. Now, before any of you think I've sunken into a drug-induced stupor, let me explain that I am under the care of two professionals; one recommended and dispensed, and the other concurred. Nice to have 2 medical professionals in agreement, especially when their fields are supposedly unrelated. And yet, we as humans are such divine wonders that the fields of expertise of these two professionals overlap quite remarkably. It's just nice to see that each of the doctors I have chosen to work with me has an appreciation of the whole mind/body connection.

Allow me to explain. Besides surviving for many years on very little sleep, I am by nature a nurturer. I feel the need to mother everyone in my realm. I take on the problems of their world and make them my own, quite often to my detriment. It's not as if I don't have enough on my own plate; I feel compelled to nibble off of everyone else's. Why? I'm not really sure, but that's one of the questions I'm seeking an answer to. Maybe I feel I'm not useful to others unless I'm a savior, coming to their rescue. Who knows... I'll allow professional #2 to delve more deeply into that mystery.

First, allow me to reveal that professional #1 is a wonderful, caring and insightful gastroenterologist. When I say that factors have conspired to work towards my detriment, I mean that on both a physical and emotional level. My gastro guy is working on the physical part, having diagnosed me with IBS and having prescribed the aforementioned drugs. And I must admit, when taken with some regularity, these drugs are quite successful at calming an otherwise quite uncalm digestive system. But: they also calm me into unconsciousness. One of the traits about this doc that I appreciate so much is he wanted to know about my stress level, and what I'm doing to cope with it. Are you kidding me? I'm like a cat clinging to the ceiling by it's claws. Which leads me to professional #2.

I am also under the care of a caring LCSW. For those of you not "in the know" (and I wasn't either, until I Googled it), that's a Licensed Clinical Social Worker. She's like a psychologist without the testing, or a psychiatrist without the drugs. Which is good, since I'm already on drugs. She takes an holistic approach, addressing both emotional and situational aspects. And she is in total agreement with the gastro guy's protocol, just as he is in agreement with me seeing her. Wow... sounds like one big happy family, doesn't it?

Well, not quite. I'm the initially unwilling participant in this whole scenario. Oh, I readily admitted I was having stomach problems. You don't come from my family of culinary afficionados, and suddenly decide you just don't want to risk eating anymore, without there being a MAJOR problem. So, seeing the gastro guy was a cinch. It was admitting there may be deeper factors to this that was the difficult part. And it took the insistence of a new friend to make me see I need help in dealing with the emotional stressors in my life. It's a good thing I value this friendship and trust the person's opinion implicitly, because my initial reaction to seeking professional psychological help was to feel like I was being shoved off a cliff.

You see, admitting to needing emotional and psychological help has been an excruciatingly difficult step for me. I come from a family whose older generation views the need for psychoanalysis as a sign of weakness or an excuse for bad behavior. And I don't want to be viewed in either light. That's probably why no one in my family is privy to the fact I'm seeing a counselor: I don't need any negative or derogatory feedback this early in the game.

I come from a family of a few good men, but a virtual army of strong women. It has even caused me to coin a phrase: we are a feminine-centric family. It goes far beyond a matriarchal situation. The women of my immediate and extended family (which consists of aunts and cousins) are the real deal. Besides the normal cooking and cleaning, chauffering and such, these remarkable women drive buses, are award-winning chefs, run their own companies, put themselves through school, write books, and do it all with such style and panache as to be noteworthy. They have known their share of sorrows as well. More than a few have buried husbands; several have buried children. And through it all they survive. No, they do MORE than survive. They succeed. I am firmly convinced that if Robert Harling had not written "Steel Magnolias" as an autobiographical tale of the strong women in his world, he could have easily written it as a biography of the women in mine. They are steel personified, with a sheen of gentility. They may tell you to go to hell, but they'll serve you a mint julep to enjoy along the way.

THESE are the standard bearers in my family. And to a certain extent, I have earned my seat at their table. I have sat in doctors' offices and heard that dreaded diagnosis of cancer 3 times over with members of my immediate family. I have paced long hospital corridors, fidgeted in numerous waiting rooms, and watched liquid death drip into the veins of those I loved. I have buried my only sister, my advocate, my friend -- a loss that is as fresh to me today as it was 20 years ago when it first happened. I have buried my father, often my adversary, always my blood, finally my ally. I have the luxury of knowing he and I made our peace in the weeks prior to his death, and he placed on me the solemn responsibility of my mother's care after his departure -- a responsibility I take seriously. Only my mother has survived this evil called Cancer, and I have been with her every step of the way.

But my seat at this table is different. My chair is adrift in a sea of tears, many shed, many still held tightly within me. I look at the strong women seated around me and realize I am cut from a different cloth. Mine tears easily, and is filled with holes. And it is up to me to mend myself and become whole again. This is my quest.

2006-02-24T13:25:00.000-08:00

Habits... we are all creatures of habit. I am undergoing a serious period of introspection, and I have come to realize this fact more than ever. As the days are getting longer, the sun shining warmer, and the earth is beginning to awaken from it's long winter's nap, I too am rousing as if from a deep disquieted sleep. I am awakening to the realization that my life is filled with actions based on habit, and many of them are not useful or productive.

I suffer the worst consequences from my habit of procrastination. It's like an all-pervasive virus that has spread throughout my being and I'm waiting for a miracle cure. I envision it now: I'll be skimming through late-night t.v., amazed at the drivel that makes it to the screen, & there it will be -- "For only 3 monthly installments of $69.95 for a one month supply, we will send you our amazing Procrast-B-Gone. These pills are gauranteed to work after taking them for only 9 months, or your money back." And even though the info-mercial is filled with personal testimonials to their miraculous capabilities, I'm unable to get up from the couch, find my credit card & make the call that will change my life. Procrastination takes over, along with the magnetic pull of the couch, and I settle back in to continue channel-surfing.

Of course, I don't like to call it "procrastination." That term sounds way too clinical. I much prefer to go with the more romantic moniker of "Scarlett O'Hara" syndrome. You know the deal: the house needs cleaning, but there are way too many books to be read, or movies to be watched and critiqued. So "I'll think about it tomorrow." In the meantime, dishes are stacking up in the sink, and the loads of laundry to be washed are too numerous to count. You know it's getting bad when you'd rather buy more socks than wash the 20 pair you already own. But I've read 2 books in the past week, and have begun 3 more. That Scarlett was a wise woman. Little did she know, she would become the icon for procrastinators the world over.

Another bad habit is smoking. I've been a closet smoker for many years - a puff here and there, bumming a cig off a co-worker, which eventually led to buying my own packs and now I buy cartons because it's cheaper. It's a nasty habit which serves no good purpose: I hate the smell of it on my clothes, in my hair and in my house. What is it about these evil little sticks that makes them so addictive? Whatever it is, can we add it to cauliflower or turnips? How about beets or broccoli? I know the world would be a much healthier place if we were addicted to fresh veggies.

But a good friend told me just last week that I'm "trainable." (I think it was intended in a good way, but one never knows...) The comment made me feel like Pavlov's dog. But on a cognitive level, I know my friend is right. I had never worn a seat belt in my life until I went through First Aid certification years ago. Watching all those gruesome films got to me; that very afternoon I put my seatbelt on for the first time, and now I can't even turn the key in the ignition without buckling up. I made a conscious decision to do it for about the first week, and now I don't even think about it. The saying goes something like this: "Thoughts lead on to purposes; purposes go forth in action; actions form habits; habits decide character; and character fixes our destiny."

So it is up to me to make a conscious effort to break my bad habits and replace them with good ones. I don't want to look back at the end of my life and see that my days were filled with a succession of bad habits I didn't have the willpower to break, instead of a life of accomplishment, whether great or small. Aristotle said it best: "We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit."

My goals are small; I figure I better start out that way and build up to the bigger ones. I don't want to get discouraged too quickly. Here are a few of my goals: do at least one load of laundry everyday. At that rate, I could conceivably be caught up in about... 2 weeks. Every day, pick up something that's just lying around gathering dust and put it in it's place. At that rate... ok, I better rethink that equation and make it 10 items everyday, or it will take me 2 years to get my house in order. Last but not least: write. Every single day. Whether it's just a small quote I've come across and like and want to share, or whether it turns into a small novella, I must get the creative juices flowing again. And this little blog may just do the trick.

Signing off now to go put a load of clothes in the washer. Woof..

2006-02-22T09:02:00.000-08:00

My, how things begin...

This all started out as an attempt to post a comment to a dear friend's new blog. And the next thing I know, a blog is born. A new, doddering-in-its infancy, baby blog. And I am it's perplexed mother. Those of you who know me realize that I am not the maternal type. Little ones make me nervous, with all of their decibel-shattering demands and constant craving for attention. (Although, if I couldn't wipe away my own drool, I might also be tempted to squawk until someone noticed & came to my rescue with a Wet-Wipe.) I digress...

This parental foray should be different. No poopy diapers or throw-up to clean up. No getting up at 3 a.m. to feed a cold or starve a fever. (Or is it starve a cold and feed a fever? I can never get that straight.) And I can pay as little or as much attention to it as I feel like, without fear of being reported to the Department of Children's Services.

Hmmm... this motherhood thing may not be so bad after all. As long as it only involves a blog.