Joy (and pain)

Starting at 3 p.m. EST today, I am officially between jobs until 8:30 a.m. Monday morning. Tomorrow, my plan is, "I ain't gettin, I aint gettin outta bed today."

Today my headache is that I am between PDA's. I am a librarian at heart who believes that I don't have to remember everything, I just need to remember how to find it. PDAs have been a salve to my soul since Sparkle bought me my first one for my birthday 5 years ago. Since then, I've owned or operated no fewer than 4 devices, but I had to return my latest companion to my workplace this week. When I reset the thing, I felt like my brain had fallen out of my head.

Sparkle is very kind to lend me his PDA, which he got as a hand-me-down from his boss a year ago. It's not quite the same model as my last love and a far cry from the device I expect I'll be working with soon.

It took 5 minutes to "backup handheld databases." Good thing I don't have much on my agenda this weekend. If I did, I sure wouldn't know about it.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I'm finishing up my last week of a job that I thought I'd be at for at least 4 more years. Unexpectedly, I had an opportunity to apply for a job working for Sparky's sister. Although I expected to stay in my current job for years, I have always told my sister-in-law that I'd love to go work for her. When I said that, I didn't even really know what she did, I just knew that I would dig working for her. She's got workaholic tendencies like me, she's a superstar, and she still knows how to have a good time. In short, she's a good role model for me in my work life.

So one day about 2 months ago, Sparkle picked me up at the metro station, as usual, and when I got in the car, he said, "Now just listen, this could be good. Nils has a job open and I think you'd rock at it." He had already gotten Nils to send me the job description so I could take a look and think it over before he even told me about the thing. Now get this: Nils works in a completely different field than librarianship. True, she works in health care the same way I've been working in health care -- working in the field without actually having much to do with sick people. But I've never done the kind of work that Nils does; I don't even know the language she speaks at work.

The short story is that I competed and got the job and I start on Monday. I have loads to learn -- LOADS. I'm leaving a career that I started about 7 years ago (it's what I got my master's degree to do) and a field where I'm on top of my game and I know how to win. I'm going to a new world where, like I said, I don't even know the language.

When I was in high-school, my aunt-mother (see previous posts about my good family vs. my birth family) put me to work for her. She paid me real money for my work and when work was over, I got to hang out and play. Working for a-m has been, by far, the best work I've had. Working for family is right -- the work part has a completely different kind of accountability and rewards than working for strangers. The real life part is even better -- I'll get to know what's going on with my nieces, my family, I'll get to develop a deeper relationship with Nils. I'll also get to commute with Sparklestone.

So yeah, I've got a lot of changes going on and it's all good. My only question is: should I wear my hair curly or not curly?

Take it where you can get it

I don't often accept that my birth father has anything to offer me, but sometimes I hear his voice in my head and it just fits. Today he told me, Never let 'em see you sweat.

If this is what it means to honor your mother and father, then I can dig it.

A new obsession

Everything has its own special place where it lives.
There is a right way to do it and it doesn't work if I don't do it right.
When I'm done, everything is ordered and tidy.
I can make each one work.
aaaaaaaaaah, sudoku.

listening to myself

Yesterday I took some bad professional advice and I regret it now. Nothing terrible happened, but I made a valuable employee feel slightly less valued because I didn't trust my instincts. It was a silly situation and it's all smoothed over now with no loss of property, but I really wish I could erase about 5 minutes of yesterday.

At first I was irritated with the person who gave me that advice -- that person was minding my business. But I'm the one who took the advice and acted, so I'm irritated with myself. I'll forgive myself and move on -- my employee has forgiven me -- but I have to record my blunder so I'll be sure to learn my lesson. Sometimes I'm just a dunce.

Now I've got that 311 song in my head. I'm gonna have to buy it and put it on my iPod... that'll make me feel better!

Dang, it's been a while

I'm at home sick today and I'm in that place where I can't sleep right now. I watched bad TV for 3 hours straight last nite and I just can't stand one more second of it. I don't think we get Sesame Street here.

How shall I try to catch up? I'm reading a fascinating book titled, How to Say it for Women: Communicating with Confidence and Power Using the Language of Success. Oh, it's good! It deals with writing and speaking and identifies ways that women's use of language makes them seem puny and weak. It's forcing me to look at my own business writing and speech and allowing me to speak more clearly and forcefully. And for the record, my writing here breaks every rule -- this ain't biz-ness. There's another blog for that.

What else? Oh! My job has made me cooler, can you believe that? This smart lady who's working with us wanted to investigate using iPods and podcasting for educational purposes, so she wrote a proposal that funded everyone in my department getting an iPod. Can you dig it? So now I've got a mini and I've put lotsa good music on it and I've found some pretty good podcasts that I can listen to on my long commute to my job. Not too shabby, eh?

The best thing going on lately is that it's finally HOT and HUMID outside. Over 90 degrees and sticky puts me at my best. I've even gotten on my bike to ride with my husband a couple of times in the past weeks. I'm happy to have any reason to be outside in it.

I can't believe I didn't write yet about my neices' dance recital. Both girls (ages 6 and 4) are the youngest girls in their classes and by far the cutest. The 6 year old was born in awe of older girls, so she worked hard to keep up with them and gave a strong performance. I recognized a look of intense concentration on her face. The 4 year old is amazing in that she always has her head in some alternate plane that none of us can really see. When she was on stage and the other girls were dancing, she was very involved with the beaded leash connecting the poodle on her skirt to her waistband. Watching her live her own reality gives me deep joy. I got the news about the recital at the last minute and had to scold everyone around me. Next year, I'll have that recital on my calendar on the day they start classes. Aunt Miss Kate is all about dance recitals. Heck, Aunt Miss Kate is all about the dress rehearsal for the dance recital.

And now, I will sleep.

livin' it

On Friday, our good friend retired from active duty in the military. After 20 years, it's a big deal, so he and his wife planned a big celebration with his birth family and his chosen family (we are of the latter group). His birth family gave him and his wife some reasons to be stressed and cranky, so mine and my husband's job this weekend to was to make both of our friends as happy as possible during all the party-giving and family-transporting. We did our best to give him the celebration he deserves and I believe we were successful.

Later this week I'm going down to Texas to see my good family where one of my sisters is graduating from college. Another of my sisters graduated from high school last weekend. I can't wait to see them and help make celebrations for them.

My husband's birthday is next week, and we're going to start the celebration in a couple of days, since birthdays are really birth months around here. This year I won't wake up with him on his birthday, and I don't like that at all. I'm planning to work extra hard to make that up to him.

My mother taught me and all of my brothers and sisters that we each have our own moments, but that not all moments are our own. Any time one of us stepped out of line and tried to claim another's moment, Mom would remind us, "This is not about you."

But it sure is. Being in it, being behind it, making them feel special, giving them their moments-- that's all about me. She did a good job, my Mom.

the good stuff

I've got this friend in my town with whom I'm pretty close. She and her husband eat with Sparklestone and me (our house, their house, or out) at least 3 times a week. We spend the night at each other's houses on the weekend (even though we only live 6 miles apart). We camp together all summer, and we just started investing together. She and her spouse have a big black doggie, very much like ours. Even though we don't look alike, people get us confused, calling us by each others' names. The cool thing about that is, neither of us minds being mistaken for the other (most days, anyway). She's my business partner at our day jobs and we share an office, so I see her almost every day that we have to go to work. She's also a virgo.

Our jobs are very busy and can get stressful and we really rely on each other to get through the days and to keep each other from killing a lot people who really deserve it. We are both super achievers (see the virgo thing, above) and we work our butts off. We had gotten into a rut where we were working all the time -- even when we were supposed to be having fun and hanging out with our boys, we'd spend hours and hours bitching about the jobs.

But today was good! Sparklestone and the other husband drove out to West Virginia today to close on this condo that we're buying together and my pal and I stayed in town with our doggies. After we got the human boys on the road (the dogs are boy dogs, hence the distinction), we spent all damned day shopping. Neither of us are endurance shoppers and we usually go home after 2 stores. But today we wandered around even did some good coaching on purchases.

Her: Miss Kate, you would look great in this blouse! Just buy it. You'll be so mad at yourself if you don't buy it.

Me: You know, those shoes just aren't the right color. But these shoes are. Do you need me to ask for another size for you?

After we finally gave up and came home, we had soup and salad for dinner and then we watched this chick flick that we would have never been able to watch when the boys are home. It doesn't matter that I didn't love the movie, what matters is that I got to watch it all the way to the end and find out that I didn't love it.

Hanging out with my girl is just good fun.

But now it's midnight-thirty and I'm wishing that my man was home. If I go to sleep now, it'll seem sooner that he gets back.

A little boy I know

Last summer I got to know a little boy who looks just like his mother, my sister. Before I met him, I hadn't known anyone who look so much like he belongs to me. I don't know if it's just because he looks like me/mine that I feel so connected to him, but I do know that the only other time I've ever fallen in love at first sight is when I first laid eyes on my husband, Sparklestone himself.

The joy of my life is that when I fell for Sparkle, it all worked out right. I'm not so sure that everything is gonna turn out OK with that little'un who's related to me. It weighs on me. I want to fix it but I don't have the power to do it.

Since I kicked my mother and my sister out of my life, I'm doing much better. I don't just cry all day anymore and I don't feel like I need psychotropic drugs to deal with my life. I am a healthier person without them. But they have the little boy and I can't even talk to him without going through them.

Does every family have some monumental heartache that they have to ignore in order to move on? Is this just the human condition? Am I being a big baby?

How do I harden my heart enough to keep living and yet keep it soft enough to do the right thing?

I have a video of him dancing and singing. It's one of my most prized possessions.

I yam what I yam

I am a Virgo. All the way down to my bones, I am pure virg. I am the virgiest virgo you will ever meet. I tried for a long time to be less virgo-y, but I'm smart enough to know when I'm beat... there's no hiding it.

We virgos have incredible work ethics. We are often said to be the hardest working sign in the zodiac. People say lots of other not-so-nice things about us too, but no one can argue with the fact that we know how to work. Couple that with a relentless attention to detail, and you've got the stuff to drive people insane.

When I start something, I really hate to stop until I have finished it completely. I mean, all the way, doing it right, no shortcuts, and it's not over until the mess is all cleaned up. And then I just have to straighten this. And maybe that should go over there. And now I can see that this thing should be different. And it goes on. When I do this, my husband says that I'm in the Zone. He gets really nervous when I'm in the Zone and he usually tries to avoid me then. Sometimes that works out for him fine and other times not so good.

We have both fallen into the zone with these house projects that we've been working on. We have been killing ourselves with painting, repairing walls, replacing vanities, changing light fixtures.... The house is looking great, but we're both exhausted all the damned time and we're not having that much fun any more.

So this is it. I am using my blog as an accountability tool. I am announcing to the blogosphere that from now until the weather turns crappy (crappy means that the days are short and the trees are bare), our house just doesn't need to get any better. We're gonna hold right here.

Yes, I am a Virgo and I can't change that. But I'm smart enough to surround myself with people who aren't exactly like me so that I can be a more well-rounded person. And I can take a hint, however subtly delivered.

abiding affections

There is a decent amount of scientific literature on the bonds that humans form during the transition between late adolescence and early adulthood. Apparently we are incredibly malleable during our development between about 19-22 years of age (in Western cultures, anyway. The textbooks I've looked at aren't really concerned with a global view) and the people we bond with during those years greatly determines what we come to value as adults. I guess, among other things, that explains why military recruiters really work on those kids just about to graduate from high school.

I have a love with whom I bonded during that time in my life. She and I went through all kinds of heavens and hells together and we even inflicted some of the same on each other. We took different paths and moved to different cities when we were still in our mid-20's, but any day of the week, I can call her and there's no doubt that I'm still talking to the same person. It's common that we'll go for months without contact, but when we call each other, it's like we've never stopped talking. It's not that we know every detail about each other -- it's that we know the important stuff and all the rest falls into place. There's nothing that she can do that will surprise me -- I know her nature. And I love the luxury of having a friend who can't be surprised by me -- she's not overly impressed when I'm a superstar ("Yeah, I expect that of you.") and she's not shocked when I sink to new lows ("Yeah, you've got sleazy tendencies, so what?"). She is always with me and in some of my best moments, I hear her speaking through my mouth. I am going to Texas next month and I'm making plans to see her then -- it will be like falling into the happy, fun, safe, laughing childhood (pre-adulthood?) that she and I created together.

My husband and I spent this weekend with two of the people (who are now married to each other) that he bonded with during that same period of his life. I didn't know my husband then -- we didn't meet until we were both well out of those phases of our lives. We've spent numerous weekends with these friends of his and I've slowly been building my own friendships with each of them. However, that young adulthood bond is really impossible to crack -- those three know each other in ways that I'll never break through. That's not a bad thing -- it's what it is: just like my husband will always feel slightly on the outside when the Princess and I get together.

This weekend with these two friends was different for me than others before. It's not as though we were all transported back 10-12 years and we had the chance to make those bonds, but something definitely happened. I've already written about how slow I am to make friends -- and I'll use that as a testament to how special are these two people (now three). They have continued to give me chances and chances for years until I think we've finally hit our stride. We'll not be able to say, "We've been friends since we were in college," but (ulp, god willing) we will be there, telling each others' grandchildren, "I knew her before your daddy was even born."

That is worth waiting for.

Y'ate Whut?

We ate paint. and when we didn't have any more paint, we ate paint.

Saving medical education

68 degrees, sunny, all the flowering trees in full bloom.

I think I'll go spend the best part of my day inside a dark conference room, saving medical education.

You see, my business partner and I are really good at what we do and people know it. So when the big boss at our Prestigious Medical Center asked us to make a presentation at an international conference about something that we do that he's never even seen before, well, we couldn't say no. It's not that we couldn't say no because it's such a great opportunity, it's that he's the big boss and neither of us are so good that we can tell the boss, "No."

So today, instead of enjoying Spring, or instead of getting a lot of work done on our house, I went and saved Medical Education. You can thank me later.

By the way, it is my goal to be my own big boss and to be so good that I can say, "You know what? Sunday really isn't a good day for me. What else ya got?"

red velvet pocketbook

rowdy village people, royal value price, regular view picture, rockin' vixen punk, rare variegated petunias, racy violin player, (rvp, where are you?) raw vegetable platter, rainy valley palace, recreationally veiled player, Rita's voluptuous pout, rising venus' path

I'm in a bad loop

As you can tell by the time-stamp on this post, I'm at work as I write this. This week I have to finish an article, prepare for a class I'm teaching on Thursday, and put together a presentation for a conference on Sunday. So what the hell am I doing blogging?!

I am procrastinating. And I am making myself nutso. This is not good behavior.

And I know that the only people who are reading this blog don't have a problem with this behavior and will in fact encourage me to continue. But I am stressing myself out here! So please, friends, how about a little tough love?

I unpacked our champagne flutes this weekend

When I was growing up, my mother had a very fancy set of china and silver that she received when she and my father got married. Those dishes lived in a cabinet and I never remember eating from them even once. I am of a different mind about using nice things. My husband and I use our special dishes every Friday night and on any other special occasion that we can think of. I think that the fancy goods get more special the more we use them, not based on the rarity of their use.

I have been known to make a celebration at the drop of a hat (or a leaf or a dishtowel or whatever). When my husband and I left our comfy-but-cloying life in the American midwest to move to the exciting-but-draining life on the East Coast, a confluence of stressors conspired to make me forget that practice. That's a shame.

But I'm back! I'm remembering how important it is to make a big deal out of the little deals. If we don't do that, then months and months just pass without any recognition of all the fun, laughter, joy, accomplishments, and friendship that we live through every day.

Plus, I really like champagne.

I think I'm becoming a social creature

My enormous and amazing family was here for most of last week and I spent every minute possible with them. We all crammed ourselves into our kitchen, we all ate dinner together every nite, we went to ESPN Zone together, we did museums together, we rode in the bus together, on the train together... And when they pulled away from the city on Thursday morning, I was truly sad to see that bus leave. I LOVED having them all in our house and I enjoyed all the craziness of preparing meals for so many people. In truth, I never cooked alone -- there was always some teenaged person standing next to me, asking me if I needed his or her help. We stayed up until almost 1 a.m. every single nite, just because I didn't want to end our conversations.

So the family left on Thursday and then Thursday evening, we met our two local friends (yes, there's two of them) for dinner together, since we would be gone for the entire weekend. After dinner, we hopped in our car and drove ourselves to Brooklyn to see our two grown-up friends and one toddler friend there. I loved being with each of them every minute. When we weren't hanging out in their always hospitable house, we were walking the streets, mingling with the crowds, being a part of the world. I didn't feel misanthropic at all.

As soon as we got back to our town, we drove straight to our local friends' house for dinner. And then we had them over for dinner last nite. I just can't seem to get enough of people. I can't explain it.

I wish I understood why I'm having this sudden change of attitude. Is it because I've been hanging out with such good people that I can see more good in the world? That explanation has some holes in it -- it's not like I've been hangin' out with creepos for the past couple of years or anything. Is it because we've been working so hard at home that our house feels good to me? Is it because the days are getting longer and I'm actually getting some of those good sunshine drugs that my body needs? Whatever the reason, I wish I could bottle it and save it for those days (months on end, actually) when I want to hide from humanity, or worse.

Since I don't know where this comes from or how long it will last, you oughta just come on over and hang out with us right now. You know, get it while the gettin's good!

Aunt Miss Kate

Last nite we had 13 people here besides my husband, the dog, and me. There were adults talking and cooking and young women hanging out, comparing notes. There were kids running all over the place and a wrestling match full of stinky boys... There was hanging out on the sofas and talking and looking at photos and 5 conversations at once and lots of coffee...

It was good. I told my LM (Little Mommie) that I could really stand to do this every Saturday nite with them. This is just how they live.

One 3 year-old nephew is here and he is SERIOUSLY cute. And funny and smart. There's something about a kid saying "Aunt" in front of my name that makes me want to spoil him to pieces. It's so automatic that it makes me wonder if I'm hard-wired for that.

I had some fun being the aunt for my new niece and nephew too. To them, I'm an adult and therefore have the qualification to possess some authority. At about 10 p.m., when everyone was getting ready to watch a movie, my niece (7) asked me what is for dessert. I told her that a cookie sounds good to me, so she ran and got one for herself. About 5 minutes later, her dad came upstairs and said, "I can't believe my daughter -- she's eating another cookie, without permission." I had to confess that I was the bozo who gave her permission and I apologized because I don't know any better... I had to go find my niece and tell her I was sorry for messing up -- and then I told her that she just can't rely on me for that kind of information any more because I obviously don't know what I'm talking about.

But the good part of that story is that because she asked me, she got the cookie. I guess that's what being an aunt is all about.

My (good) Fambly is on the Way

I have an Aunt and Uncle who, for my entire life, have been my models of sane and good parents. They have cared for me the way that my birth parents should have done but unfortunately, they didn't have the authority or power to just make it official and be my legal parents. But they are the ones that I call my mom and dad.

They are really good parents and they are into parenting. They have given birth to 3 children from their own biology, but they have adopted others so that there are 7 children with the same last name. And then there are my sister and me, who they count as their own -- They call me their eldest daughter. When I was 15, I wished more than anything that they could adopt me and that I could live with them in their house with them.

It's a strange family set up. It's even stranger because my dad (not my birth father, but my real dad) is a Baptist minister. He has been either a minister or on his way to becoming one since I've known him (and he's almost always been in my life). My family is deeply and faithfully christian -- more deeply and faithfully than any other group of people that I've ever known. They represent a paradox for me -- they are all extremely intelligent, but they have the kind of faith that tells them that god is interested in every movement, every moment. Those two characteristics just don't jive for me. In fact, the idea of god being interested in what I'm doing but not doing anything to stop the bad stuff really gives me the heebeejeebees. Really.

But I love these people so much. They have loved me and protected me and they can't wait to come see me and my husband, even though they know that we don't believe that they believe. And for them, that belief is not the kind of thing that they can just agree to disagree about -- this is real-eternal-life-business to them. I don't know how they've worked it out that we are OK... I suspect that they are praying for us every day that we'll see the light and convert. I don't know though, because they don't say those things to us and we just don't discuss it. We also certainly don't discuss the fact that my husband and I marched at the March for Women's Lives or that we voted for a different president than they did. Somehow, we've implicitly decided among us that we are not going to focus on those big differences.

When we're together, I feel loved. I don't feel like I have to do anything differently except laugh and relax and enjoy the craziness. Because you know with that many people, it's really just crazy. But the good crazy, not the crazy crazy.

So with my parents and my 7 brothers and sisters from that family, that sounds like it would be 9 people. One of my sisters has 2 little boys -- and at least one of them (the 3 year old) is on his way right now. But my sister from Boston is also coming tonite and she's bringing her freshly minted fiance and her 2 soon-to-be step-children ( my soon-to-be niece and nephew!). So that brings the total to about 15 people. My husband is freakin' out.

These are my choices?

Sex and the City OR The Hunt for Red October OR the Trinity channel with the chubby people singing about the city of god... TV is bad. Now we're watching House for the first time. It's about some cranky maverick doctor and I'm pretty sure I hate it.

I work with doctors and people on their way to becoming doctors and I like most of those people. Working in health care has made me realize what a huge and growing industry is health care in the U.S. I've also learned how to spell health care.

One disturbing thing about my job is that sometimes I have to evaluate the materials that we use. Sometimes I accidentally open a book or a file that has some grody image in it.

I know people who had once been doctors who become librarians, but I don't know any doctors who started out as librarians.

Aw Geez.

Well, I did it again. I commented on my work blog while logged in as my personal self.

Sheesh.

If you got here from our work blog, be warned that the blog here is that of my personal life and not related to work at all...

Read at your own risk. You can turn back without penalty or regret now.

Working with my Man

My family is coming to stay in our house in about 2 weeks. My family -- the ones who get to stay with me -- will number about 12 when they descend upon us. They're willing to sleep anywhere and they cook for themselves and they talk to each other and to anyone around them constantly. I cannot wait until they get here! I talk more around them in about 24 hours then I normally talk in a week!

My husband is very nervous about their coming, and I don't blame him.

There's one good thing about their impending arrival for him -- we're painting and that means that we get to hang art on the walls. When we moved our stuff into the house over a year ago, he wanted to hang up our pictures immediately. I insisted that we would not hang art on the ugly, dirty, papered walls -- I insisted that we live with the bare ugly walls, lest we lose our motivation to beautify the place. So here we are -- we've now done everything that it takes to get to the point of applying paint of an actual color to the walls.

My husband and I both like color. The only white paint that will be around when we're finished here is on the ceiling and trim. We've had some fun choosing colors, but sometimes it leads to a little bit of anxiety. We are currently painting our living room a Magic Color. When we first started applying it, we were both pretty scared. It looked like some peach color that came straight from one of Don Johnson's t-shirts when he was on that Miami show (I don't think that my husband ever watched that show). But right now, the color looks even better to me than I expected it to.

Before it had morphed away from the Miami color, though, my husband and I spent a few minutes feeling each other out on what would happen if the paint didn't turn out the way we wanted it to. We each took turns being positive and negative about it, until we finally mutually agreed that we would paint the room with the paint we have and if we don't like it, we'll deal with it later. In this case, later most likely means about 24 months down the road.

I like working with this guy. Not a lotta pressure. And he is sooooo good-lookin'.

I'm Bloggin!

Yo.
When my friend redballoon posted her first blog entry, she said that the hard thing about starting something new for her is the starting. For me, the hardest part about starting something is knowing that I'll get distracted at some point and won't have time to keep it up. What can I say, I'm a busy lady.

Today my boss suggested that we start a new blog to communicate with our users and I'm now an editor on that blog. Well, darn it, you can bet that if I'm gonna have to do it for work, I'm gonna make an extra effort to keep up with my bloggin' for fun. Besides, in case you haven't heard, there's a new blog in town that I need to keep up with.

Peace.

What we got here is a brick red kitchen!

We finished painting the kitchen this weekend. Everything is painted, ceiling to trim. We even hung a new light fixture with fancy halogen spot lights (the original ugly-ass fixture from 1969 went out with last week's garbage -- sorry if you had your eye on it!). Our new kitchen is a thing of beauty and I am so excited about getting the rest of the house in shape.

When my husband and I each moved to Omaha (before he was my husband), we each had our own apartment. Within 6 months of me and the pooch arriving there, the three of us rented a house together. We looked at lots of houses before we found the one that we lived in for over 3.5 years. For me, the deal-cincher was that when we walked in the door, the floors were all hard wood and every room save one was painted a color other than white. I loved living in that house. I was so comfortable there. The house had many problems. To name a few: the basement was a hideous swampy place; the bathroom was the only room in the house with carpet in it and it was what you would imagine bathroom carpet to be; and the walls behind the shower were crumbling. In fact, the walls in every room lost about 3 ounces of plaster each time I hung a new piece of art. But the bathroom was painted a rich tan, the office was green, the living room and our bedroom a muted yellow, and the dining room was, yes, imperial red. Color on the walls allowed me to forgive a multitude of sins.

We started painting the kitchen last week. Between the crazy disarray of a kitchen in progress and my crazy out-of-control job, I was ready to sell the house and move out of the area all together. But now that we have a red kitchen, I think I can stay here for another month. We'd better get the other rooms painted quick-quick.

Don't do Anything Else Until You Look at This!

http://www.candyboots.com/wwcards.html

My Man has a Good Ticker

It's just shaped a little funny.

"Healthy white baby?!," I says. "What else ya got?"

from The Plague, by Albert Camus

"But what had he, Rieux, won? No more than the experience of having known plague and remembering it, of having known friendship and remembering it, of knowing affection and being destined one day to remember it. So all a man could win in the conflict between plague and life was knowledge and memories. But Tarrou, perhaps, would have called that winning the match."

"They knew now that if there is one thing that one can always yearn for and sometimes attain, it is human love."

"Nonetheless, he knew that the tale he had to tell could not be one of a final victory. It could be only the record of what had had to be done, and what assuredly would have to be done again in the never ending fight against terror and its relentless onslaughts, despite their personal afflictions, by all who, while unable to be saints but refusing to bow down to pestilences, strive their utmost to be healers."

One good thing

When I was in jr. high, my dad came home one weekend with a ceiling fan for every room in our suburban ranch house. Since I was the oldest kid, I won the role of helper to him for that day. Because of that day, now I can install the light fixtures in my own house.

That one thing worked out O.K.

ketchup on the walls

We started painting the kitchen last nite. We're going for a deep brownish red. The guy at the paint store told us that it'll take 3 coats at least.

When I started cutting in on for the first coat (that's right, I said cutting in. I've been studyin' up on dis) it looked liked I'd smeared ketchup all around the edges of the walls.

The only reason I can even mention ketchup is because I am so certain that it will not look like ketchup when we're done.

progression of the disease

I haven't spoken to my mother since the first week in December. My youngest sister lives with her and I haven't spoken to her either. It's painful. I had to stop speaking to them because the choices they make and their actions are only pointing toward destruction. All my speeches to them were how they must change direction. They refused to listen, no matter how I pleaded, how much evidence I presented, how much of my own heart's blood I spilled over them -- they refused. So I had to get out of it.

Last night, I found out from my Aunt that my mother spent last weekend in jail. In jail. Neither my mother nor my sister who lives with her called me for help. That's a relief because I can't give it -- it's too late for the kind of help that I can give. Bailing my mother out of jail so she can continue what she's doing is not help.

When I was in high school, before I could admit to myself that I hated my father, I played a game with myself. I would ask, "What if he died tonight?" I tried to imagine if I would be sad at all or if I would just be relieved. I could only very secretly admit to myself that I would be relieved and that I would have to pretend that I was sad just so the rest of the world wouldn't know that I was a monster. Today, I can say that I would be relieved and I won't even have to pretend that I'm sad about it -- I know which one of us is the monster.

I played the game with myself about my mother today. The answer that I got is not the easy one. If I lost my mother today, I would weep for her. No pretending. I weep for her now anyway.

There's just this sadness and pain that won't go away. I have learned to put it aside for periods of time -- sometimes I can ignore it, sometimes I can forget about it, sometimes I can work around it. But there are days like today when all I can do is cry. I don't want to share it with anyone personally -- it gets so old and so heavy and it's such a black hole. I get so self-conscious about asking anyone to listen to it or to comfort me -- it doesn't leave any room for anyone else's pain or joy.

I know that I used to find distractions that would avoid these things that I can't change. Too much booze and drugs, terrible relationships -- those things kept me from doing the things that I needed to do to be stable. When I was sad then, I knew that there were things I needed to change to fix it -- I knew that if I changed my actions, I could make my situation better. I've gotten rid of those distractions but the pain isn't gone.

Do I get to ever escape this? Am I going to do this for the rest of my life? If I can't feel better by being good, then why am I wearing out myself to try? On days like this, I fight the seduction of self-destruction. I could go on a bender, wreck my job, spend too much money... create situations that I would have to fix, but that are fixable. Why not?

I only have one reason that I maintain self-control -- it's for that man who's in the other room playing a love song on his guitar. Because of him, I can imagine what my life can be like without this darkness. For how long can one person soothe another? Does the image of my life without this pain make the pain more terrible?

I need some relief.

go blog yourself

There's this lady that I work with who is really quite a dynamo. She's with us on a one-year fellowship and she's really into her work. She's great for keeping us informed about what's new in technology and in the world and she's given a big shot-in-the-arm to our professional development. I really like her and am trying to figure out a way that I can hire her when her year-long fellowship is up.

But now she's done it. She has introduced blogging as a tool that my workplace can probably use. She and our boss are posting all kindsa work related blogs and are wanting us to comment on them. She did a really cool thing by showing me how I can get RSS feeds from the blogs that I like, but dammit! I really don't want an RSS feed of my work blog.

Blogging is for fun. Work is work. The twain don't need to meet. Sheesh.

Damn! 285,000 hails!

We're watching the Star Trek where Worf is caught in a quantum reality fissure. He is some kinda confused and then all of a sudden, there are 285,000 other Enterprises.

I can relate. Sometimes I feel like life is coming at me that way. Worf had all those alternate realities to choose from... None of them seemed to involve a nap though.

Disjointed thoughts

I used to say, "I'll sleep when I'm dead." When I said that, the conditions of my life were very different than now and I spent my waking hours in very different ways.

I am working my tushie off these days. My job is challenging and rewarding and I've got good prospects for professional growth there.

One year + 2 days ago, my husband and I bought our house. Since then we've painted our bedroom, had the kitchen remodeled, and today we had our tall staircase painted.

Last weekend, my business partner and I made a presentation at a conference in New Mexico. We each took our husbands with us.

There are so many things that I want to do with my time. I want to make our house comfortable. I want to be a superstar at my job. I want to publish and make presentations and I also want to go back to school to learn Spanish and read and write English better. I want to start a family with my husband and be a good wife and mother and daughter-in-law.

If I don't sleep, I could get a lot more done.

Revising, not revisionist

After reading yesterday's post, the Love of my Life expressed concern for me. He said, "That reads like the writing of an unhappy person who's trying to convince herself that she's happy."

In fact, I have quite a few journal entries where I have written like that... I'm not going to share them with you here because they are sad and they embarrass me. However, because I've written that story before, I know that yesterday's post is not the same story. The problem with yesterday's entry is that it reads like the writing of a person who says she cares about writing but was too lazy to write well.

Here's the story: this weekend was dull. It wasn't fun, it wasn't busy, there was nothing doing and it was just dull. When I wrote about it, I was trying to get some perspective on it and I didn't do a good job.

My husband asks me on a fairly regularly basis, "Are you happy?" When he asks me this, he's not asking if I'm happy on a superficial level... it's not "Are you happy with your salad dressing?" or "Are you happy with the way your lipstick goes with your blouse today?" When he asks, it's because he knows that in my life I've had plenty of reasons to be unhappy. I struggle with it -- I don't want to suffer all the time precisely because it is dull and heavy and it's a drag on the person who I love most. It also bothers me when he says that my writing sounds like unhappiness because it doesn't do justice to my life now. I have things in my life worth being unhappy about. A boring weekend is not one of those things.

So let me be clear on this point: This weekend was dull. Years ago, I would have never considered a weekend like this possible because I lived Friday nite at least 3 nights a week. It was fun. During that time of abundant Friday nites and fun, I had no hope of any real future, no hope of a permanent partner who is good and kind and trustworthy, no hope of having my own house, and no hope of having a job other than waiting tables or tending bar. It might seem I've made a deal with the devil: I've given up all those Friday nites (or I've spent more than my lifetime allotment), now I get stability and wholeness and goodness. If I have to sacrifice the occasional 48 hours to the demon gods of boredom, then so be it. The glory of Starz and Some and the duplex on Broadway is over. But since then I’ve had some moments that make those old Friday nites seem like dry toast. I’m not finished, y’hear me?

It has come to this

This weekend's itenerary:

Friday night: cook dinner and eat with my husband's parents. They are funny, intelligent, interesting, and entertaining people and it's a pleasure to spend time with them. They don't even read this blog and I still say those things about them. Definitely the highlight of the weekend.

Saturday: the area expected big snow, so we took the dog to the P-A-R-K (can't say it, he knows that word) when it was just snowing a little to let him get rid of some energy. Then to grocery store where we bought groceries as though we wouldn't be able to leave the house for 4 days -- it was mostly eggs, coffee, cheese, and wine. Then we watched some Star Trek; exercised a bit; watched some more S.T.; watched Anchor Man; more S.T.; fell asleep watching SNL.

Sunday: did some work (yep, for my job) while sitting in my PJ's; shovelled some snow; finally got dressed and went to the store to buy stuff for my job.

I might not be the most boring person in the world, but I think I'm a contender. The kicker is that I'm not even upset about it... I am what I am and this weekend is what it is. How can I live this way? Why is this OK for me now? It's gotta be because my life is so good that I don't have to honkey-tonkin' to chase down something that I don't have. I've got it and it's at all at home.

Inauguration

I think that tonite I became the president of our Home Owners Association.

"How in the hell could that happen?" one might ask. The quick answer is that I'm a sucker who likes to be in charge of stuff, no matter how stoopid the stuff. The long answer is that I'm a sucker who likes to be in charge of stuff.

I believe that I shall close traffic on our street, declare that our county must pay for our expenses out of the homeland security budget, and that my spouse shall wear Oscar de la Renta to the ball. Join me or be left behind.

Can I call it a mandate if nobody else wanted the job?

Ms. Manners does not approve

I have this thing about manners: I love 'em. Manners help us live comfortably with one another and are an obvious way to show respect to others who happen to share the same space as you at any given moment.

The best gifts my birth mother gave to me was to teach me to always say please and thank you; to put my napkin in my lap before taking a bite of food; and to chew with my mouth closed. I loved learning the proper way to set a table and if I'm faced with more than 4 utensils at a setting, I can cipher which fork to use. I'm proud that my best friend refers to me as an authority on protocol because she considers me a Southern Belle. (Yes, she grew up in a different country than this one and she doesn't know many other Southern Ladies -- I'm still proud).

My love of manners puts me in the habit of wanting to avoid embarrassing another person. That's why when a student in an advanced degree program at Prestigious University buuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrppppppped during my lecture today, my reaction was a very subdued, "That's Nice. That's Very Classy," and then I proceeded with my point.

What I really wanted to say was, "Look, you spoiled, punk-ass medical student! You don't know what I'm talking about and I do. So sit up and pay attention!" However, that's his momma's job. If my mother could do it, I know his momma could.

I have dreams that out of those 140+ students sitting in the auditorium during that lecture, one of them will suffer embarrassment on behalf of that classmate and email an apology to me. One of the things about having good manners is that you expect that someone else in the room will know how to respond. However, another trait of a person of good manners is that she treats others personally while she avoids taking personally most of the actions of others.

Fucking brat.

Snow, the book this time

I've finished reading Snow, by Orhan Pamuk (translated from the Turkish by Maureen Freely). It took me longer than usual to read this book -- I read Life of Pi in the middle of reading Snow. At first it was the overall sadness of the book that slowed me down, then it just became the book itself. I finished it because of a kind of contest -- it came down to that book or me.

How's that for a review? My real problem with the book is that I just don't care about any of the characters -- the only character with any promise dies as a teenage boy. The main character is a 42-year old man who can't make up his mind about anything. He's whiny, insecure, and worst of all, he doesn't think about anything besides chasing his own happiness throughout the entire 400 pages. The protagonist, a militant named Blue, says it best in a pithy quote about how when one only seeks his own happiness, he ends up miserable. I could give you the actual quote, but I already returned the book to the library.

If you must know, I did a very geeky thing and went looking for reviews of the book to see if I just completely missed the boat. Doesn't look like I did. John Updike reviews the book for the New Yorker and Margaret Atwood gives a review for the NY Times Book Review -- just in case you're interested.

So, can anyone recommend anything to read? I'm wide open.

Snow

Snow is the title of the book I'm reading right now. I've not digested enough of it to talk about it here.

But I'm in Weston, MA right now (a woodsy place outside of Boston) and they got TONS of snow yesterday. I'm not going out in it.

I was in Boston last year in January and it was the coldest winter in 17 years. I promised myself that I wouldn't make the same mistake and go to Boston in January ever again. I told myself that I'd go somewhere warm and sunny and green in January if I needed to take a trip. Funny how those promises I make to myself are the easiest ones to break.

I gotta learn how to make my own weather. You might think I mean that in some metaphorical, psychological sense, but you're wrong this time. I'm talking about some Dr. Evil / Mr. Burns make my own weather kinda thing. It'll be just right, I promise.

Life of Pi

** Warning: This post contains a mild spoiler. If you haven't read the book yet and plan to, you might wanna skip this posting. --Miss Kate**

I recently finished reading Life of Pi, on loan to me from my sweet friends in Brooklyn. Early in the story, a friend of Pi tells us that "this story will make you believe in God." I was dubious of that claim when I read it, since I'm fundamentally skeptical of any such notion. One of the questions for group discussion at the end of the book asks,"Did Pi's tale alter your belief in God?" My answer is a simple, "No." What Pi's tale did for me was make me think about the power of forgiveness. Specifically, about the power of forgiving oneself for being strong.

In order for Pi to survive, he had to do many, many things that he never wanted to do. But he did them and became good at doing them. His reluctance to do those things wasn't out of laziness or squeamishness -- he didn't want to do those things because he felt the pain that those actions would bring to others. But he survived because he did those things. The question is, how can one survive while acting in ways that are completely at odds with the ideal that one has established for herself? Pi did it by telling his story. He says, "The world isn't just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? Doesn't that make life a story?"

Pi tells two stories, one full with an orangutan, a zebra, a hyena, and a tiger. That story contains all of the pieces that allow him to forgive himself for surviving when others did not survive. At the request of two investigators, he tells another story and he describes the story before he tells it. He tells the men, "You want a story that won't surprise you. That will confirm what you already know. That won't make you see higher or further or differently..." After he gives the men that story, all of them agree that the first story with the animals is the better one.

Survival is not for the weak because it is brutal.

I hope to learn to tell my story in ways that allow me to be compassionate with myself for surviving and that help me forgive myself for not meeting my ideals during every trial. Every minute is a new chance that I can make it and reach for my ideals again. Writing helps.

Here's to those stories that help us see higher and further and differently. Be well, R.P.

January 5

When I was in 1st grade and she was in preschool, someone gave her a Sesame Street alarm clock. It was in the shape of a school house and the clock face was set in the school house like you'd expect it to be. Sitting on the steps of the school house were Big Bird, Ernie, Oscar, and Little Bird. We slept in the same bed then because we were little kids and she liked to talk me to sleep at nite. When the alarm clock went off in the morning, it was Big Bird saying,
"Good morning, it's me, your friend, Big Bird. The old school house clock says, 'It's time to get up!' Ernie and Little Bird and Oscar and I hope you have a nice day. Now brush your teeth, wash your face, and don't forget to wind the clock!" When Big Bird finished his speech, the clock would make a cha-click noise and would start it all over again. When we had memorized the speech, cha-click and all, we used it to bug our mother on many occasions.

She is my sister and I will do anything for her.

---

January 5 is what we call Sammy Love Day.
6 years ago today, Harris and I brought home our dog. That night, we asked ourselves many times, "How can something so little smell so bad?" We still ask a variation on that question, except he's not little any more.
He is spoiled and stinky, but he's still the best dog you'd ever want to know.

The Yellow Wallpaper

My high school held a contest every year for dramatic reading. Students were to pick some piece of literature and learn to read it with drama and inflection and had to finish within a very strict time limit. I was lucky in high school that in my senior year, I had a sister who was a freshman. She is a very dramatic person. I had never considered entering this contest in my previous three years of high school, but in her very first year, she had signed up to compete on the very first day the contest was announced. She brought home this incredible short story by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, titled The Yellow Wallpaper. I stayed uninterested in this contest until I heard my sister read this piece -- and then I had to have it. My sister is so nice to me -- she really should have told me to shove it -- that she let me start practicing with this story to read it for the competition. Throughout the story, the narrator loses her mind and her demise is brought on by some wretched wallpaper in the room to which she's confined. This is a dramatic short story. I read it and practiced it at home, in my english class, and for anyone that I could make sit still for the very strict 5 or 6 minute time limit. At the competition, I gave it my all (the key is under a plantain leaf! UNDER A PLANTAIN LEAF!), but was disqualified because I was a few seconds over time.

Two or three years later I learned that Charlotte Perkins Gilman was a prominent feminist in the late 19th / early 20th centuries who was called crazy for thinking like a woman. She was my first introduction to feminism and I was thrilled to meet her again when I was older and could appreciate what she was getting at.

My husband and I moved into our first house that we own last February. When we bought the house, I knew immediately that two things had to change: the kitchen and the wallpaper in the dining room. When we saw this wallpaper, my sister and I both immediately called to mind that narrator's description of the wallpaper in her confinement room:

I never saw a worse paper in my life.
One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.
It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.
The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.
It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.

It is that bad.

The kitchen is now finished, except for some paint. I've finally worked up my nerve and have attacked the wallpaper. I'd like to say it's a satisfying process, but this wallpaper is printed on gold foil, which makes removing the paper a real s.o.b. I've gotten half of the paper down now and it has cost me 10 precious hours of my precious life. This process is so bad that I find myself using my fingernails to pull the paper off in strips, like my narrator. I haven't done it yet, but by the end of the fight, I'll probably have gone to work on the walls with my teeth. I will win this battle. You're not gonna find me hanging out a window, telling my hubby to pick up the key under any damned banana tree.

Would Charlotte Perkins Gilman be impressed? I wonder.

My Friends

I am a shy person. People who know me professionally never believe me when I say that, because my job is a very public job. I do a lot of public speaking and I do much of the public relations for my department. It's very easy for me to get up in front of a crowd and talk or teach or do whatever has to be done because none of that is about me -- none of that is personal.

It usually takes me a very long time (or some very intense circumstances) for me to trust someone enough to purposefully reveal myself to him or her. I am also often more comfortable not talking when I'm with someone -- I would rather speak only if I have something to say. I'm not good at that art of finding things to say -- for me, it's either there or not. My mother has told me that when I was little, before I started school, she and I would drive around doing errands together and that I would sit quietly and not say a word for miles. She told me that I got more talkative when my younger sister started talking, but by then it was just so that I wouldn't feel like anyone forgot about me. I think I still live like that.

With all of my reticence, it's a wonder I have any friends at all. But there are some amazing people in my life who have let me open myself up to them in my own time. The people who are my friends -- those whom I've trusted enough to let them see my vulnerable self -- are such rich, good, beautiful, and trustworthy pieces of art that I am humbled when I think about what they're doing in my life.

I live very far away from many of my friends. I am fortunate to live close to three of them and I see them almost every day (My husband is one of them -- it's a bad day when I don't see him!). Those friends who live close to me are very important to my daily life. We don't talk on the phone much, unless it's to say, "I'll be right over," or "will you bring some wine when you come?" With my friends who live far away, I almost never call and rarely email. I do my best to call on birthdays (the most important holiday of the year), but due to the nature of birthdays, I usually only get to leave a message. It's perfectly conceivable that I can go for more than a year without hearing the voice of one of my friends. It's back to that driving for miles without talking pattern: I'm really comfortable in that silence.

Maybe part of the reason that I don't have to talk to my friends so often is because I can often hear their voices as I live my life. In that whole process that it takes me to become friends, I'm learning about those people as much as they learn about me. Once we're friends, that person is a part of me and I start to see parts of the world through his or her eyes. Sounds a little like We are Borg, right? Well, maybe, except that the Borg are not selective and I am.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how much I love my friends. When I am in trouble, I usually withdraw and don't talk to any of my friends about what's going on in my head. When I start to come out of a phase of trouble, I find myself trying to reconnect with those people whose voices sustained me without their being aware of it. I have also been thinking about how I feel when I am able to help one of my friends. I feel needed and loved when a friend trusts me with some frustration or heartache and when I have the opportunity to try to do something to ease my friend. It is so difficult for me share my troubles that I tell myself that I'm doing my friends a favor by not laying the heavy on them. I wonder, though, if I'm really being a good friend when I do that. Would I be a better friend if I ask my friends for help when I need it?

I want to learn how to be a better friend to the beautiful people who are in my life. Those who have saved me from unhappiness and despair many times over deserve my attention and evidence of my affection. I think I'll start looking for a book on how to be a good friend... and I'll work on letting them know where my head is. I'll bet they'd be interested to know what their voices say in my head when they're not around.