THE SECRET LIVES OF ROLANDA AND STUART

Stupid Student

2012-01-07T22:34:00.000-08:00

I'm starting up with courses at Mt. Hood Community College again this term. Instead of immediately pursuing a degree in Biology (with the career of "zoo keeper" in mind), I am focusing on sharpening my current office administration skills and bettering my resume with certifications and proficiencies.

The ideal plan would be to obtain these and an Associates Degree while employed by MTC, taking advantage of their Education Reimbursement plan (where classes need to be relevant to my current position, or applicable to any future positions within the organization). I should then have the necessary qualifications for an office job at the zoo, to get my foot in the door that way .. or to get an office job at a Portland-area college, where I could pursue a Bachelor's Degree in biology or zoology, and take advantage of employee tuition benefits there.

An even more ideal plan would have been to start this plan 10 years ago.

Because I am working full-time (and truly need to at this point), I anticipate only being able to take one class a term. Also, because I have a marriage I'd like to continue to nurture, a home to maintain, relationships I don't wish to relinquish, a figure that needs to be reclaimed, other life goals that need to be chased down .. all of those things will suffer if I take too many classes at once.

But then I start laying out this plan, term by term, and I want to give up before I've even begun. A full-time student can obtain the most basic Office Assistant Certificate in 3 quarters. It will take me ....... four years. To obtain all certifications, I'm looking at the year 2020, easily.

This is step 1 of my career plan???

It is safe to say I am currently feeling full of regrets for the choices I've made the last 18 years.

Cattails

2011-11-12T11:42:00.000-08:00

I've always loved cattails. I just got such a kick out of them when I was a kid. Now, I still love them - perhaps more for reasons of nostalgia than anything else. But they make me smile. They're quirky. Rustic but elegant. Their striking verticality juxtaposed against the soothing, flat water's edge.

One of my favorite things about the new home we've moved into is that it is situated across the street from a small pond, which is surrounded by wonderful cattails. In fact, this is one of the major reasons we even bought the home - for the pond, the bullfrogs, the ducks (and yes, I know bullfrogs can eat baby ducks, but I'm going to pretend I don't know that), the heron, the cattails and the red-winged blackbirds that cling to them. And a second floor office with a balcony I can step out on to enjoy all of it.

As I'm writing this, however, and staring at the picture inserted of these wonderful cattails, the more I'm realizing .. they look like corn dogs. How have I never noticed this before? Is this really why I love cattails? Because they remind me of corn dogs, which are wrongly delicious? Man. If I subconsciously love cattails because of my obsession with food rather than some poetic appreciation of nature, I'm very disappointed in myself.

Which brings me to the reason for this post: I am. Very. Disappointed. It has never before occurred to me - until I looked out my window a little while ago - that you can blow cattail fluff the same way you do dandelion fluff. WHY HAVE I NEVER BLOWN CATTAIL FLUFF??? I just saw a family of 3 (plus a happy, jumping dog) having a cattail fluff fight, and it seemed like the perfect, quintessential fall thing to do. As perfect as kicking leaves as you walk through them, drinking spiced apple cider, and wearing turtlenecks. All of which I've already done this fall, so I need to go outside and add to my repertoire.

* * * * * * *
(virtual cattail fluff, my gift to those of you without the real thing)

Time Capsule

2011-11-10T20:08:00.000-08:00

I thought I had given up on blogging. (Facebook, I shake my fist at you, you ruiner of more than two thoughts strung together!) But I've wandered back here, briefly reading a few of my entries from years past .. and I'm amazed at how little I remember from the events I previously blogged about. (Seriously? I ran past a flattened salamander on my first race? I totally don't remember that.)

I'm enjoying having my memory jogged. And I'm starting to realize that creating this time capsule of sorts might be something I will thank myself for later in life. Because even if I don't exactly remember all those details, it is enjoyable knowing I experienced them so completely at the time.

I lost a co-worker a couple of weeks ago. Donna Patrick, Springdale's Center Director, passed away from cancer. She was 48. She lived life fully, and she died far too young. In addition to the multitude of friends, family and co-workers who adored her, she has left behind a legacy at Job Corps that is remarkable.

I dream sometimes about what my legacy could be. To be perfectly honest, I make myself sick about it - lamenting time wasted, fretting about time running out. I don't have children, so wholeheartedly investing myself in them as my legacy isn't an option, as I suspect it is for most people. And yet .. nothing has called to me. Am I merely supposed to choose, somehow, from all the worthwhile causes and people in the world? Make a list, close my eyes, point my finger at the paper and commit to where it lands?

While the options seem too limitless at times, NOT leaving a legacy doesn't seem to be one. What's the point of living if you don't do it in such a way that it leaves pleasant ripples after you're gone?

I'm under no false impression that my writing is anything that will be passed on for generations. In fact, I'm finding this current post to be more "mud bog" than "reflective lake" or "cool, refreshing stream". But it might help me reflect on my life when my time comes. It might be the mirror that shows me how much more I need to do to consider that life one well lived. It might just be a silly blog, but it might lead me to my destiny.

1:38:39, One Black Toenail and One Giant Blister

2009-05-02T14:39:00.000-07:00

I participated in the 32nd Troutdale Trot and Walk this morning. I mostly walked it, had a goal of finishing in 2 hours (I had previously walked it on my treadmill in about 2.5 hours), and ended up crossing the finishing line near the front of the pack in 1 hour, 38 minutes and 39 seconds.

First race.

First number thingy for my scrapbook.
First sports injury (GIANT blister and a black toenail) ...

... unless you count the time at the Youth Group softball game when Tim Sivacek barreled into me at 2nd base, bending my thumb backward and giving me a slight strain. Tim, if you're reading this, I still maintain that that was completely unnecessary! Anyway, I don't count that, because Youth Group softball is supposed to be for fun and walking/running 6.7 miles clearly isn't.

I started at the back of the pack and thought this was going to be a healthy but leisurely stroll through downtown Troutdale and along the scenic Historic Columbia River Highway. You know, where I'd have time to hear birds singing and admire spring flowers. (Oooh! I did see a baby salamander, but he looked pretty flat so I think someone in the crowd accidentally stomped on him. And lots of slugs, since it had been raining. Slippery!) I sure was shocked when they fired the gun and everyone's hips started swinging around in that way that only speedwalking elicits. I felt instantly doomed. Since we would be passing my street around the 2 mile mark, I thought maybe I'd just take a little (race-ending) pitstop at home.

On the first big hill, I discovered I had a competitive spirit. I started burning past people who were hotshots at first, and then started playing little games like "I have to pass the next group of people in less than 100 steps". I passed more and more groups until I had the front-runners in view. I got tired of walking and would jog for a while, then walk again. This helped to cure the boredom of no music and no walking buddy (Steve, you selfish jerk, heal already!), and the shin splits I always get when I walk quickly but don't get when I jog slowly. Not that there's a real discernible difference between those two to the casual observer ..

It wasn't my goal to win, but to complete as quickly as possible. I held back on the jogging when I realized some ladies were calling me a cheater. Good grief, gals! So while I'm absolutely confident I could have jogged more and come in first (What?? Crazy talk!!), out of respect for the walkers, I held back.

What a crazy sensation. Walking, but itching to jog. Discovering a competitive spirit that could serve me well in future races. Even the fact that I'm considering future races .. who am I???

At the very end, I caught up to a hefty gal who was kicking butt. I told her she was amazing, because she was. I'd had my eye on her for a while and had finally caught up to her. She told me she was trying to beat last year's time, and was on track to do so by a good 20 minutes, and that she was walking it 75 pounds lighter this year. As if that wasn't enough, she's training to participate in the Hood To Coast relay this year. What an inspiration! (I didn't let her beat me, though.)

Next year, I'll trot. In the meantime, I'll look for other opportunities. And a new pair of sneakers, and some pretty nail polish to cover my disgusting toenail.

Math Whiz

2009-03-22T19:04:00.000-07:00

So I've finished my second math class, and I'll be receiving the grade that I worked so hard for: a big, fat juicy "A". Feels good.

It's funny how people want to make you feel bad about your success. I sat at a table with guys who - jokingly (or was it?) - would call me a bitch when I got my tests back with few or no errors. Hey, if I was actually being a bitch and flaunting my grade, they'd be right. They'd list a million excuses for why they scored poorly, or didn't finish their homework, or didn't understand the material. Like I asked.

Last Tuesday, I left the final at the same time as another gal in my class - a mom who works full-time and was taking another class. She was ecstatic to have found out that, prior to the final, she had a "B-" in the class. She asked me what my grade was. How do you sugarcoat that you're getting an "A"? And why should you have to? I left out the part where my average going into the final was actually over 100%.

"But you're naturally smart at math," she protested. I didn't want to disagree, even though I do, because, why? To make her feel bad that she worked hard and got her grade, and I worked hard and got mine? I struggled over my math homework. The second the material got more difficult, my brain would turn off. I don't think that's really the sign of a mathy brain. And I've never once had a math instructor tell me I'm naturally gifted at math, and I think they'd know. The truth of the matter is, I deserved my grade. I did my homework. I turned in every extra credit problem. I studied for every test, and prepared like crazy for the mid-term and final. So I let her think that I'm naturally smart at math, because that makes her feel better, and it doesn't really change anything. But it was a weird predicament to feel like I wanted to prove that I wasn't so smart, and I worked hard too .. but to also feel like pointing that out might, in fact, make me the bitch that I was accused of being.

I have a co-worker who is recently married, has 3 kids, and is taking two courses. He calls me a wimp for only taking one course. He says I have "no excuse", because I don't have kids.

No, I don't have kids. No, my attention wasn't divided over multiple courses. But yes, I do work full-time. And yes, my husband has had a knee injury which has required me to drive him around to consultations, surgery, appointments and physical therapy for the last 5 weeks, which means I have been thrust into the role of sole errand runner and the "not naturally smart at caregiving" caregiver as well.

I told my co-worker that some people thrive on stress and chaos. I am not one of them. I know my limits, and I want to enjoy my one life, and I choose to include or exclude things in a manner that benefits me. I've waited a long time to go back to school, and I'm paying for it, so I'm going to do what it takes to get the most out of my classes and to be successful in them.

I'm not denying that the odds are in my favor. But that's how I've stacked my deck, and that's how they've stacked theirs. I admire the courage of those adults who are back in school while working full-time and raising kids, and I don't quite know how they manage it. Good on them!

Next term, I'm taking a break from math. Originally I was going to take a complete break from school because we didn't know what the demands of Steve's injury/recovery would be. Now we know he will probably drive sooner than 6 weeks from now, which was the initial projection. And even if it takes that long, his physical therapy appointments will be at 7 am, which doesn't interfere with my work schedule or school schedule. I'm going to take some sort of computer literacy course and a health and physical education course (unless I find out that my dance courses from the University of Oregon from a hundred years ago will transfer), both of which are required credits for my degree. That should involve one night of reporting to a lecture, with the rest of the work being done on my own time.

And I intend to work hard, and I expect that my hard work will be rewarded, and I will feel good about my success because I'll have earned it and have waited a long time for it! And I never want to have to feel apologetic about it, despite the fact that that's what others appear to want.

So even if no one else thinks it, I do: good on me.

Betcha Greg Oden Doesn't Use Frozen Peas

2009-03-05T16:16:00.001-08:00

As the doctor said today, "Knees are like pregnancy. Either you're pregnant, or you're not. Either your knee works, or it doesn't."

Not exactly profound, or terribly poetic for that matter, but true enough.

And Steve's knee ... well, it doesn't work.

But hey! We won't ever be posting any ultrasound images on our blog, so here are some freaky MRI images instead. (Is that redundant? What does the "I" in MRI stand for? Is it "Images"? If so, by saying "MRI images" am I really saying "MR Images images"?)

It's like Steve saying "spinach salad" instead of just plain spinach and driving me crazy. Sort of. More accurately, like using the term VIN number. Vehicle Identification Number number.

Anyway, Steve's knee doesn't work. He's scheduled for surgery next Tuesday morning.

Oh, he's telling me the "I" stands for "Imaging". So just ignore that up above.

Here's what's technically wrong with his knee: Prepatellar bursitis, partial tear of the infrapatellar tendon at the attachment sight on the patella, partial tear of the medial retinaculum, small knee effusion with a tiny Baker cyst with minimal subcutaneous edema. Get your internet research on!

Surgery time TBA, but Tuesday morning. Should last about an hour and a half. Will be able to walk on it immediately but will have two separate knee braces on (I'll understand that one when I see it). If insurance won't cover the fancier of the two, then he'll be wearing frozen peas instead. Unknown when he'll be able to drive again. Won't be chasing bad guys (or softballs) for about six months.

The good news is ... we totally saw Greg Oden at the doctor's office.

Tram-tastic

2009-02-21T10:56:00.000-08:00

When it's windy here during the winter, you lay down at night - earplugs in - and say a prayer that the wind will be gone when you wake up. When you wake up and realize it's still windy, well, words can't really describe the disappointment.

Today it seems like it might be a little lighter. Not "go outside and have some fun" or even "go outside and do some work" lighter, but "hmm, maybe I won't go completely insane if this is as bad as it's going to get" lighter. Or, "oh that's right, the forecast calls for rain, which is usually the only time the wind stops blowing in the winter" lighter.

But insane I'm starting to feel. Kind of a typical state for me in February, but exaggerated by the wind. A couple of years ago we visited friends in Arizona in February (you know who you are, the only two people who actually read this blog). That was an a-typical state for me to be in (heh) and it was glorious. It was sunshine and expansive blue skies and warmth and puppies and kittens and rainbows and magical sparkle dust.

I want to go on vacation!

In lieu of doing so, as we're saving our time for a trip to the east coast this summer (fingers crossed), we were reminiscing over our vacation photos from Colorado last year. Figured we'd finally share some. Consider this blog the first of several installments.

Above: The tram (gondola, whatever) ride we took from Glenwood Springs, 4300 feet up to Iron Mountain. The views were spectacular. On the way down, we found out we were riding with a local celebrity, some middle-aged-hottie-with-a-great-voice newscaster whose daughter just had to spill the beans about who her dad was. We didn't recognize him, of course, so neat, kid.

Below: Some of the incredible views from the Glenwood Caverns Adventure Park at the top of Iron Mountain.

If you enlarge the last picture, you'll see Steve floating in one of the rafts down the river. (Just kidding. Did you really do it?) He was on the mountain with me. Ridiculously, we ran out of time to go rafting. Next trip!

Next installment: What's a girl to eat for breakfast while on vacation? Cave bacon.

Ode to my Valentine

2009-02-15T09:36:00.000-08:00

Since I turned 34 in 2009, I made a list of 34 things to accomplish this year. Item #13: Blog once a week. For shame, I've already missed the last two weeks!

But I have found myself exiled to the office this morning, and my options are: paperwork, more paperwork or computer work. I've already done my homework for Tuesday, and in fact, my homework for Thursday as well. (Item #1: Complete 4 college courses.)

Steve is sleeping on the couch. He injured his knee at work on Friday night, falling down a hill chasing a suspected car thief, not realizing - in the darkness of the night - that he was running down a hill. Something about momentum in his torso being ahead of the momentum in his feet and ultimately going head over heels ... poor guy. He has his entire right leg immobilized by a giant brace, which is making sleeping difficult for him. He started in the bed last night, but at some point made the laborious move to the couch.

So I'm stuck in the office. And the cats are stuck in the garage, so my darling, injury-prone husband can get as much sleep as possible.

Hopefully he can see the doctor tomorrow. The initial hospital visit was inconclusive due to massive swelling (picture a camel hump rather than a knee). I can't remember what all he said could be wrong with it - something in there is deformed, his kneecap may have been out of place, he might have a torn patella tendon? (I swear I listened to him when he told me .. but I make a better nurse in practice than in study. I'll even admit that I only remember the patella part because he did a Google search for it and it was still listed up in the little search window.) Anyway, we don't know yet the extent of the injury, so we don't know what's in his future: a knee brace with rest and physical therapy, or surgery.

My original plan for this Valentine's weekend was to surprise him with a trip to Timberline Lodge, and make him take me downhill skiing for the first time in my life (Item #10). Thank goodness they were booked by the time I called! I had downgraded our plans to hiking a waterfall (Item #14), but when I saw him at our front door, I knew the plans were a) watch TV, b) help him clean and bandage his road-rashed hands and knees, c) watch TV, d) help him with his socks (this is another reason I should never have a child - I simply cannot put socks on anyone but me!), and e) watch TV. Notice none of these are on my "34 Things" list?

Oh well. What better way to show your Valentine that you love them than by being willing to dote on them, hand, knee and foot?

Here's a little Valentine poem for you, my sweet:

Your hair is red,
Your eyes are blue,
Despite ground-meat hands and Hunchback of Notre Dame knee,
I love you.

One Hen, Two Ducks, Three Squawking Geese

2009-01-28T21:26:00.000-08:00

Belated birthday wishes to my Dad!

We mailed your gift at Christmas (a Christmas miracle indeed!) and called you (but didn't reach you, boo!) on your special day ... but I didn't get this blog done on the 26th as intended.

I love you more than the tardiness of my blog entry shows!

I'm not a photo person, meaning I take them as infrequently as possible (of myself and of others) ... which in turn meant I only had a few photos to select from in the album my mom compiled for me a few years ago.

How to pick one that best embodies you, Dad?

There's me riding on your shoulders. Me in your arms looking at my birthday cake, not quite sure what to make of it. (Notice that trepidation around cake didn't last long). Me in my fancy cat face that you laboriously applied one Halloween. (How I loved looking at that book of painted faces and the lush make-up you purchased that year!)

Then there's this photo. Probably one of my favorites. Twinkling eyes. Mischievous smile under the beard I've always known you to have. And of course, the bunny ears. (I'm sure I would have been exasperated had I known at the time I was receiving them. I was, after all, the ripe age of 18 and way too mature for that sort of thing.)

Spontaneity. Silliness. The giggles.

A gift you've given me, time and time again.

I wish you many more years of laughter, ridiculous songs, and sudden, unexpected skipping in public places. (You can't deny it. Anyone who knows you, knows it's true.)

Love you!

Moving

2009-01-17T22:05:00.000-08:00

The wind has been absolutely dreadful the last two days. Trees are down, shingles are flying off of rooftops, I lost 10 lbs because they simply blew away.

I hate Troutdale. I want to move.

I've wanted to move since the second week we moved here 3 years ago, when the wind started blowing and didn't stop for 8 days. I thought I was losing my mind. (Please refrain from comments.)

It's not always as bad as it is right now. In fact, this winter has been blessedly free from wind, comparatively speaking. The last two days, however, I've prayed - more than once - "Lord, please hold our house together!"

I helped a colleague move today. I have a love/hate relationship with helping people move. I hate it, because it is so much daggum work. And a really terrible way to meet people's families. I love it (love it? okay, not really) and I keep volunteering to do so for several reasons.

It's a nice thing to do. Moving is hard work, and it's even harder to do with no help.

It's great exercise. Sure, it requires a good soak in the hottub at the end of the day (for a few days), but all that weight lifting and stair climbing .. dang! Can't be beat. (I still worked out for 2 1/2 hours this afternoon, so maybe that's where those 10 pounds went.)

It results in free food. And that food never tastes anything short of amazing, because you've worked so hard for it and you're always beyond starving by the time it's served. (Oh, Papa Murphy's, how I love your Gourmet Garlic Chicken Pizza! How I wanted you for dinner even though I just had you for lunch!)

It makes you want to get rid of stuff. It's a little disgusting to realize how much stuff we all have. Filling box after box and room after room with stuff is great incentive: the more stuff I can get rid of now, the less I have to move when it's my turn. Look in my garbage can right now (go on, do it! and take a big whiff while you're at it!) and you'll see a few pairs of beat-up shoes. Look in my donation pile, and you'll see several ill-fitting shirts that were the casualties of a preliminary sweep through my closet. Look in my recycling bin, and you'll see empty bottles of expired medicines. (Do I still need the stuff to combat my constipation from pain killers back in 2001 when I had my Valentine's Day kidney stone? I loved you because of the holiday and all, but I pray not.)

It quells my own desire to move, despite the wind. And that's all I can really say about that, because it is a temporary, fleeting quelling. I know the desire will rear it's ugly head again tomorrow if I wake up to continuing violent winds.

My colleague moved from a less windy portion of Gresham to a more windy portion of Troutdale, but still not as bad as the tunnel of flying debris and destruction that is my street. "Welcome to the neighborhood," I said, then laughed maniacally. I tried to just do that in my head, but it kind of popped out. Oops.

So I want to move. But I don't. So I drank a glass of wine to relax and will soon be heading off to bed, earplugs in, and pray from some relief tomorrow. In Troutdale, that usually means rain. I'll take it.

(PS. Just as I was previewing the final draft of what I wrote above, I heard a loud metallic crash outside. I knew in an instant that one of our window boxes had flown off the house. Steve and I were just talking about that today, as in "wouldn't it be awful if that happened?". Well, it happened. I can't wait to see the giant holes in the siding tomorrow. Yay! The silver lining is this: Steve is supposed to be home tonight. He's working overtime, therefore his beautiful car is not parked where it was earlier. Because it most certainly would not have escaped the falling window box unscathed.

Lord, I know it could have been worse. But this isn't exactly what I meant by holding my house together!)

Make A Wish!

2009-01-14T17:35:00.000-08:00

This is one of my all-time favorite photographs of my older sister, who turns another year more fabulous tomorrow, January 15th. I used it to bid her a fond farewell in the Faribault Daily News back in 1991 when she went off to college.

This blog has a slightly smaller following than that publication. Nonetheless, I thought it was an appropriate place to make the photo reappear.

Happy Birthday, sis. Can you believe that cute little munchkin grew up, made a home out East, learned to speak a few languages, became a lawyer (and her own boss), married a wonderful man and now has two little munchkins of her own ... to name just a few highlights? Pretty incredible (you are). You must have made some spectacular wishes blowing out your candles each year.

Here's to blowing out many, many more!

Love you and (still) miss you,
Ronda

Pee-ano

2009-01-01T15:26:00.000-08:00

It is raining cats and dogs here, and has been since the wee hours of the morning. At least it was dry when people were lighting their celebratory fireworks at midnight. Happy New Year!

We lost part of our downspout two weeks ago when the snow and wind started. Well, we didn't lose it ... it flew off the front of the house, banged across the roof, hit the back of the house and landed in our back yard. At least that's the path it sounded like it was taking as it woke us up at 3 am. Sleeping Beauty stayed in bed while I trudged outside to retrieve it lest it blow away completely. So it's not lost. It's in our garage.

So now, the fact that it's raining cats and dogs is exaggerated by the lack of downspout - the rain is dumping from the 2nd level gutter directly onto the roof of the first level. To accurately describe the annoying and pervasive sound it's making, I'll use Steve's words: "It sounds like a man with a very healthy prostate is peeing on our roof."

Speaking of healthy prostates, Steve and I both went to the doctor yesterday. He for his gimpy knee (from his collision with the SeaTac Airport escalator over Thanksgiving), me for my "is there a muscle there?!?" hip pain (from, I don't know how I hurt myself exactly, maybe sleeping?). Talk about pervasive. Steve got some drugs to cope with his pain, I was poo-pooed as usual. Not that I should complain about leaving the doctor with good news ("there's nothing wrong that I can see - come back if the pain doesn't cease"), but still. I want drugs!

No drugs for me. I'm getting a baby grand piano instead. Saturday. I can't wait! That man better stop peeing on my roof by then.

More details and photos to come!

Snow What?!?

2008-12-23T22:12:00.000-08:00

Oregonians tend to get overly excited about the weather. This time, it was actually warranted ... evidence to follow:

Notice the beautiful snow. Notice the beautiful Mustang, incapacitated by the snow. Steve, you sucka! (My Forester, by the way, handles the snow like a dream. Without chains, I might add. Sucka!)

Our front fence is 3 feet high, and the drift covers almost the whole thing. Of course, just a few feet in front of that, there are still blades of grass poking through the snow. Two days of wind gusts (hitting up to 60 MPH) make for interesting sculpture!

Our poor heat pump. This is after we dug it out the first day. Guess what fun task Steve took on again while I was at work today?

More fantastic drifts; these are at least 5 feet high and could smother a Ronda.

Ready to hot tub and grill. Brrrrr-atwurst, anyone?

Peace on Earth

2008-12-17T20:54:00.000-08:00

Peace on earth, Black Man.

Stop your killing.

Shooting. Stabbing.

Senseless.

Chilling.

Peace on earth, Middle East.

Stop your bombing.

Terrorizing. Paralyzing.

Heart-wrenching.

Alarming.

Peace on earth, Christian.

Stop your hating.

Preaching. Judging.

Irrelevant.

Stagnating.

Peace on earth, Husband.

Stop your beating.

Bruising. Abusing.

Terrifying.

Depleting.

Peace on earth, brother.

Good will.

Peace on earth, sister.

Be still.

Peace on earth, mother.

All is calm.

Peace on earth, father.

Right the wrong.

Work is a Zoo

2008-09-10T18:12:00.000-07:00

My boss got back from a 4-day vacation today. She kept calling it a 6-day vacation, however, which was driving me a little bonkers. We share a small office and sit about 3 feet apart from each other, making me privy to every conversation she has all day long, as many times as she chooses to have them.

It was 4 days plus the weekend. Four days! Not six! A weekend does not a vacation make.

It was good to have her back, in that my work load and burden of responsibility has been lifted greatly. After about two hours, I was wishing her gone again. Can that woman ever talk.

Maddening.

And yet, wonderful motivation to finally tip my toes back into the world of education. I've enrolled in the local community college this fall, with future ambitions of working with animals rather than people.

I haven't gone back to school until now because I have career commitment phobia. I can't guarantee that I won't change direction again, but I'm jumping in nonetheless. If you can call one Math class - at a level lower than I actually tested into - jumping in. But, I want to do well, and enjoy being back in school, and being successful in my first class will help build the foundation.

Math .. to biology .. to zoology. That's the plan.

Though I'm tempted to just run away to New Zealand with one of my co-workers, who told me tonight that he's given his notice and moving there in October.

Koalas. Kangaroos. Talk about instant gratification!

Sigh. I'll probably be on the 15 year plan before I scratch a dingo's chin. At least my boss will retire in less than 5.

Soap Box

2008-03-03T17:27:00.000-08:00

I often struggle to put into words - without sounding disrespectful, rude, disparaging, inflammatory - why I simply don't believe that men are natural-born or preordained leaders. Not of our homes, not of our churches, not of our communities. I won't even agree to this theory in an overly-generalized fashion as I begrudgingly have - for the sake of peace, conformity, and fear of God - for years.

I was simply going to let the story that follows speak for itself, but I have a few things I want to say first.

I think that men struggle more than women do to find and follow their moral compass. I think true, life-changing leadership comes from a place of compassion, a place in which women seem more often to dwell. (I do not necessarily include myself in these flattering descriptions, by the way.) I think left to their own devices, without women calling them to higher standards, men can tool around aimlessly, look inward to the point of self-import, or choose destructive behaviors that - quickly and with terrible repercussions - spiral out of control.

Men need to step back when their weaknesses are hindering progress. They need to not stand in the way of women who are gifted in areas that they are not. They need to stop automatically relegating the duties (and ministries) of "home, children, and other women" to those who have a different calling. They need to show as much respect and deference to a woman called to leadership as they would a fellow man.

From the Heifer Foundation Fall 2007 "Benefactors" publication, Greg Spradlin writes about the Women's Project in Chitwan, Nepal:

Nepal is one of the poorest countries in the world. Nepal is a country suffering from decades of civil and political unrest. As I write this, there is news of more rioting from the Maoist rebels who seek to overturn the country's monarchy - neither choice is good for this country. However, what I saw were kind and gentle people who want the same things you and I want. When their children are sick, they would like to have access to a doctor. They want healthy food available for three meals a day. They want a safe place to live, and hope their children will have a better life than theirs.

What I saw in Chitwan was miraculous. I saw villages that Heifer International had worked with for less than five years. In those villages, the women had taken charge in a culture where others only know many of them by their husband's name - property, no different than a small parcel of land they worked and toiled in to make ends meet. In the past, the husbands may have drank what little cash that they earned, and in turn would take out his anger on his wife. Today, the women have been empowered by training and community building that is part of the Heifer process. Today, those women are the leaders and the glue that holds the community together and lifts the community to become one where others would want to live.

The most astonishing thing that has happened is that the animals and training they have received from Heifer have produced a community that now has a medical clinic, a library, a community center and a community-owned fund that now totals over $10,000 USD. This is a country where the average person earns less than $300 per year. The unique thing is that the women have used the funds to build the community. They have even built a dam to protect the village from the floods in rainy season.

All of the women talked of life before they were trained and received animals. They told of having to scrape to produce maybe two meals per day of mostly gains they were able to collect or beg from neighbors. They talked about the abuses that were once part of their everyday existence. Now, they tell a story of enlightenment, where life is not as hopeless if everyone in the community works together.

Christian organizations that implore all men to step back up to their "rightful and God-given" roles as leaders do not necessarily have bad intentions. I just think they miss the point. Jesus brought us a NEW testament, a NEW life, a NEW way of thinking, a NEW freedom. The longer we cling to that which is tried, that which is true, that which is tired, and that which simply does not work, the longer we starve, neglect, despair, abuse and war.

You Catch More Flies With Honey

2008-02-15T06:39:00.000-08:00

I didn't call because I was too angry, and I was afraid I might say something I'd later regret.

I did, however, leave a still-seething letter for my former boss at the newspaper biz last night, when she neglected - for the fourth month in a row - to pay her employees when promised. This ongoing saga has included late payments, bounced payments, bounced re-payments and a boss who has been less than forthcoming about any of it. Fortunately, I haven't suffered an eviction from my apartment and repossession of my car as some of my former co-workers have as a result of her ineptitude.

When I woke up this morning, I thought I might feel some pangs of regret over my strongly-worded letter. I don't. I guess she just pushed too far, for too long, and took too great advantage of whatever forgiveness, generosity, and benefit of the doubt I could muster.

Here are some excerpts. Scold me if you so desire.

"The fact that you did not bother to call me about this change of plans [getting paid more than a week later than we were supposed to] is enormously disappointing. The cavalier and reckless manner in which you consistently handle people's pay - and the lack of respect that you show your employees by continually neglecting to communicate with them - are truly reprehensible."

________________________________________

"During my employment with you, I went above and beyond the call of duty and the confines of our contract to assist you and help you succeed in your new venture. Even so, I am not asking for additional compensation for all of my extra time and effort. I am merely asking to be paid what is owed, in a timely fashion, and without error."

________________________________________

"I'm frustrated beyond belief and out of patience. I tried to give you constructive feedback over the last few months regarding your communication skills, conflict resolution tactics and bookkeeping practices, and you have blatantly disregarded every concern I shared, with disastrous results."

________________________________________

"I would be happy to talk to you about any of this if you so desired, but I will not be initiating the conversation. At this point, I'm weary of the drama and simply want to be paid. I do wish you well, and hope that you are able and willing to do what it takes to successfully manage your business."

We'll see what happens. I believe in the adage "you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar", but sweetness is lost on this woman. Perhaps bitterness might get us somewhere. Like the bank.

Miss Kitty

2008-02-01T06:21:00.000-08:00

A couple of months ago I rescued a kitten from the industrial park where I've been working. It was a dark and stormy night - it was! - and bitter cold.

"Mew! MEW! "MEW!!!!", she cried. LOUDLY. And not quite kitten-like, either. More like a laser, cutting through the darkness and rain. "Find me, FIND ME, FIND ME!!!!!" I decided to look for her, despite the fact that I was half-convinced she was not actually a kitten, but rather a serial killer pretending to sound like a kitten, luring me to certain death in the far reaches of the industrial park. But find her I did, cowering between two giant semi tires. Despite asking so persistently to be found, she refused to come out and remained just out of my reach.

I had to leave her. I was already running late, and this was back when I still cared about delivering each and every paper on my route by 5:30 a.m. or else! I drove like a demon. I ran my apartments like a woman possessed. All I could think about the entire time I was tossing papers was that tiny little kitten. I cried as I finished and headed back to the station, praying that she would still be there.

She was. I cried again with relief, managed to get her out from the same spot I'd left her two hours earlier, and brought her home in a box. A box that said "MEW!" at Steve when he opened the front door for me. A box that made him open his eyes wider than they've ever been and ask, "What did you DO???".

After a day or two of getting cleaned up and fattened up, she started purring and cuddling. She was a whopping one pound:

After less than two weeks, she had almost doubled in size, and had found her spunk and personality:

She was a pretty little calico that we refused to name. She had lots of nicknames, but most often we referred to her as Miss Kitty. We didn't intend to keep her, as two cats are more than enough .. but we were absolutely smitten with her, despite all the work. Crawford was learning to tolerate her, even starting to play with her a bit (and once letting her cuddle with him during nap time - what a sight!), but Beeker absolutely despised her and was unrelenting in his torture of her.

We found her a new home with a gal from Steve's softball team. We both cried all night after dropping her off. Everything set us off: the little stuffed hippos she would wrestle with. The bedroom door that she loved to hide behind, smashing as much of her face as would fit through the crack while waving her paw around madly. The spot of goo that she left, licking the mirror when she first saw her reflection. The pile of clothes on the floor that I couldn't bear to pick up, because she had decided to make it her "big girl" bed.

We wondered how on earth people who do foster care for children can possibly bear to let them leave. We couldn't even handle being foster parents to a kitten for two weeks, as we felt so vacant and heart-broken when she was gone!

We have been reminiscing about her ever since. "Remember when Miss Kitty would sleep tucked into the front our zip-up sweatshirts when we were at the computers so our hands would be free to type?" "Remember when she pranced into the living room for the very first time and looked so pleased with herself for exploring new territory?" "Remember how she always wanted to run around and play in her litter box right after using it .. ugh, maybe let's not remember that one."

We tried to follow up with Miss Kitty's adoptive mom a week later, and never heard back. I've been guilt-ridden ever since, imagining every terrible scenario that may have occurred. Happily, we received an email and pictures this week, and are so thrilled that she has a name (Kalee) and a friend who provides her with cuddles!

Still a bag lady, despite our efforts to rescue her from the mean streets of Troutdale! Hee.

Pterylae, I Say

2008-01-26T07:04:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite artists - and favorite people, period - from when I sold my frames at the Portland Saturday Market has opened his own online Etsy store:

Adam Stare of Pterylae Designs

He makes these wonderful geometric pieces of jewelry and art using acrylic squares and thread. And he explains the process SO much better on his site than I ever will .. but I wanted to give him props and a shout out nonetheless ("Yo, Adam!").

His pieces are so striking and interesting, and they were a consistently high seller at the Market when I was there. I think my sister bought something from him when she visited last! Trust me when I tell you that, regardless of how nice his little online shop is and how well his pieces are presented, the photographs do not adequately portray just how exquisite his work really is.

Please consider paying him a visit - and, of course, paying for some of his wares - to help him celebrate his artistry and (future) success!

You Know It's Time To Shave Your Legs When ...

2008-01-19T10:52:00.000-08:00

... you can't sleep because you're too itchy.

... you have nightmares about wearing a skirt in public, thinking you're looking fiiiiine, then realizing everyone is staring at your heinous hairy legs.

... your husband says things like "I'm not even going to ask when you last shaved".

... your cats are rubbing up against you with increased frequency.

... you seem to generate more static electricity than usual.

... you start lovingly referring to yourself as "woolly mammoth", "hairy beast" and "Chewbacca"

... you wonder if you might lose some weight if you just up and shaved already.

... small children run from you, screaming something about Big Foot being real.

... dogs seem especially amorous when you're around.

... your legs feel unusually warm for January, and you find yourself thinking "leggings, schmeggings!"

... you consider whether your leg hair could be the next big thing in flooring, replacing bamboo as the ultimate renewable resource.

... Locks of Love contacts you to see if you'll donate your leg hair to make hairpieces for disadvantaged children suffering from medical hair loss.

... you forget about the wonder that is hemp. Leg hair t-shirts! Leg hair backpacks! Leg hair lip balm! Leg hair protein powder! Leg hair leashes! Leg hair business cards!

... when you vacation in Jamaica, the locals ask if you want the hair on your head or the hair on your legs braided with beads.

... you feel quite confident that if stopped by police, you could successfully get away with concealing drugs or weapons in your leg hair.

... you're writing a blog about shaving your legs.
__________________________________________________________

Anyone else brave enough to admit to winter shaving slothfulness? (We'll just pretend that I only suffer from this affliction during the winter months.) How about your own "you know it's time" quips?

Please Add "Castration" To That Sentence

2008-01-11T11:05:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, out of the blue, someone anonymously submitted a comment regarding my post "Boys Are Stupider ... Send Them To Jupiter". I didn't post the comment, not because it varied from my own point of view, but because it was clearly written by a simpleton whose opening statement of "Go jump in a lake" showed less consideration to the topic at hand than I give to my little toe each day.

This is why it's important to think about why society values boys more than girls, and to examine our own hearts to find to what extent we might be guilty of the same sexist thinking:
_________________________________________________________________

Winter Haven, Fla. -- A Winter Haven man was charged with murder, accused of fatally beating his 4-month-old daughter because he wanted a son, authorities said. Marcos Gomez-Romero, 28, told investigators that he beat Ariana Rodriguez Romero to death because did not want a daughter, according to a Polk County Sheriff's Office report. Gomez-Romero told investigators that the beatings had gone on for months, the sheriff's report stated.

Gomez-Romero was charged with first-degree murder and aggravated child abuse. The girl died on Christmas morning.

Best News Ever

2008-01-09T11:00:00.000-08:00

Aside from the fact that she supposedly believes her son's explanation, kudos!
______________________________________________________________

DES MOINES, Iowa (AP) -- Jane Hambleton has dubbed herself the "meanest mom on the planet."

After finding alcohol in her son's car, she decided to sell the car and share her 19-year-old's misdeed with everyone -- by placing an ad in the local newspaper.

The ad reads: "OLDS 1999 Intrigue. Totally uncool parents who obviously don't love teenage son, selling his car. Only driven for three weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on the planet."

Hambleton has heard from people besides interested buyers since recently placing the ad in The Des Moines Register.

The 48-year-old from Fort Dodge says she has fielded more than 70 telephone calls from emergency room technicians, nurses, school counselors and even a Georgia man who wanted to congratulate her.

"The ad cost a fortune, but you know what? I'm telling people what happened here," Hambleton says. "I'm not just gonna put the car for resale when there's nothing wrong with it, except the driver made a dumb decision.

"It's overwhelming the number of calls I've gotten from people saying 'Thank you, it's nice to see a responsible parent.' So far there are no calls from anyone saying, 'You're really strict. You're real overboard, lady."'

The only critic is her son, who Hambleton says is "very, very unhappy" with the ad and claims the alcohol was left by a passenger.

Hambleton believes her son but has decided mercy isn't the best policy in this case. She says she set two rules when she bought the car at Thanksgiving: No booze, and always keep it locked.

The car has been sold, but Hambleton says she will continue the ad for another week -- just for the feedback.

I Love Me Some Quotes

2008-01-07T14:22:00.000-08:00

"Defecation is not a toy."

Mike Nelson, host of HGTV's House Detective, upon encountering raccoon feces in a child's sandbox.

Where did they find this guy?!? And can he stay forever?!?

A Stream of Conciousness Thanksgiving

2007-11-22T11:43:00.000-08:00

I'll be adding to this throughout the day, perhaps the week, as I reflect on all the things - big, little, silly or profound - that I am thankful for.

Thanksgiving Day, 2007

The wind. It reminds me how fortunate I am to have shelter from which to escape it.
Pea gravel. Unlike the wood chips that were in our landscaping beds last winter, it appears it's going to stay put in the wind. Yay - 8 days of back-breaking labor and the purchase of 11 yards of pea gravel validated!
Mini Marintelli's Sparkling Cider. Since Steve is working and we're not joining anyone's Thanksgiving feast this year, drinking one of these is a fun little way to distinguish this day from most others. (Guess what I'm drinking as I type this?)
A refrigerator full of food. I may not be having Thanksgiving dinner today, but I have more than enough options for a tasty, nutritious meal.
Wealth. I've been sending our donations for this month, and even though we sometimes struggle to pay our bills, and we don't have enough money each month to equally tithe and save the 10% we'd like, we are still richly blessed and truly want for nothing.

Friday

My family. I didn't connect with them by phone yesterday, despite everyone's best efforts to do so (they were celebrating when I called; I was sleeping when they called). And though I have many, many reasons to cherish and be thankful for each of them, right now I'm most grateful that, since I've started my new job and am never available during waking hours to visit, they haven't completely written me off! Love to each of you.
My cats. Thanks for snuggling with me tonight, keeping all three of us warm and happy!
Our Select Comfort/Sleep Number bed. For the same reason I'm grateful for my cats today!

Saturday

The cats on my newspaper route: Big Boy the Raccoon Wrangler, Max Headrest, Helmet, Eskimo Pie and others I have yet to name. You give me a little something to look forward to each morning during an otherwise mundane and irritating task.

Great Expectations?

2007-06-29T22:50:00.000-07:00

The trouble for me with blogging is that I have a million things I want to say .. a million things that would be so therapeutic to express .. and a giant, booming inner voice that is constantly judging what my fingers are itching to type.

"Nobody cares what you think," it yells at me.
"Nobody really wants to know your innermost feelings - that's what a journal is for!"
"Be careful," it warns. "You will probably offend so-and-so if you say that."

And on, and on, and on.

So I sit to write, and my thoughts freeze up. I prejudge what I'm about to write. I decide to write about something else. I delete. I try to write about what I think people might be interested in. And I realize I can't win, because I don't know who is reading this blog, or what they find interesting, or whether their expectation is to know the current weather conditions in Portland or my feelings on Isaiah Washington's accusations surrounding his firing despite the fact that I've never watched an episode of Grey's Anatomy ...

The deeper issue is that I have a problem with expectations. Wanting to meet the expectations of the people that I love, even without really knowing what they are, and blowing them up in my mind to disproportionately huge and unsurmountable demands.

It's silly, but very real, and horrifically, embarrassingly paralyzing.

Which is a simplified explanation of why I don't blog as often as I'd like.

I want to blog more. And I'd like to change my focus from being on the reader to being on me. Because it's my stupid blog. My readers can write their own stupid blogs. If I want to rant, I should rant. If I want to emote, I should feel free to do that. If I never want to post a picture of my cats or my house or my oodles of nieces and nephews, then I shouldn't.

All big talk, really, because I'll never not edit myself. But you get the idea.

In my last post, I ranted. Past rants have really never been commented on (which is another topic for another day), but this one was. I was so encouraged by Mike and Judy's comments. They made me feel heard and understood. It felt like someone "got" me.

And I think that's always been my ultimate goal for this blog. To give people a chance, if they want it, to "get" me. Not that I'm so very complex or that I live such an absorbing life ... but if that's what I want to try to accomplish here, well:

It's. My. Stupid. Blog.

If I say it enough times, maybe I'll give myself permission to act on it.

Stay tuned.

Boys Are Stupider ... Send Them To Jupiter

2007-06-05T00:10:00.001-07:00

I talked to an expectant mother, the wife of one of Steve's teammates, at his softball game tonight. This will be their second child. Their first is a 21-month-old boy that she spent much of the game chasing after.

She only has 8 weeks left in her pregnancy. They haven't found out the baby's gender yet, and intend for it to be a surprise. I found this incredibly refreshing. I think that once we become adults, there are very few genuine surprises in life. Hearing "it's a girl!" or "it's a boy!" at the moment a baby enters the world seems to me one of the utmost wonderful surprises a person could ever experience. My new-found respect for this couple was quickly shattered, however, when I asked if they allowed their son to be a surprise, as well. Her reply, "No", was not in and of itself upsetting, but rather their reason for finding out.

Her husband needed to know the gender the first time because, if they weren't having a boy, he needed time. To prepare himself. For the huge disappointment a girl would have been.

Now that he has his boy, he couldn't care less what the next child is.

He has his little "mini-me". The precious offspring to carry on his beloved family name. The boy who will fulfill all of the dreams that his stupid, inept father couldn't in his lifetime. The boy that I secretly hope grows up to study ballet rather than baseball, who turns out to be gay and produces no grandchildren for this SOB.

Yes, I'm angry. No, it doesn't affect me personally. But it astounds and enrages me that we live in the USA in the year 2007 and people STILL place so much more value on boys than girls. This is neither a time nor culture in which I would expect people to abort their baby girls until they produce a first-born male ... until I hear garbage like this.

No, I didn't spit judgment and venom out on this unsuspecting new acquaintance. I couldn't just let the conversation die at that, however. "My husband needed time. To prepare himself if it wasn't a boy." Gah!!! The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Me: What would he have done if it WAS a girl?
Her: Oh, I don't know! Tee hee!
Me: Are girls so bad? YOU'RE a girl! He seems to like you well enough to, well, you know ... (wink, wink)
Her: To be honest, I'm terrified of raising a girl!
Me: Why?? Remember, YOU'RE a girl? Are girls soooo bad?
Her: Well, once I turned 13 (blah blah blah ...)
Me: They're all terrible when they're 13. My perspective is different, I suppose, because my brother presented some unique parenting challenges that my sister and I did not. (blah blah blah ...)

What's really ridiculous is that I've had a similar conversation with almost every one of my girlfriends. About how they would be happy with either gender, but if forced to choose they would choose a boy. It makes me sad - and yes, mad - that these women, consciously or not, abhor parts of their femininity so much that they do not want to pass it on. It infuriates me that women choose to have kids with men who childishly and selfishly cling to the notion that "boys are better than girls".

Steve has a female co-worker who married a fellow cop a year ago. They were not planning on having children. His father recently passed away, however, and this has changed his perspective. He now wants to have children. She still does not. It seems that, in order to save her marriage, she may soon cave. That is an intensely personal decision to make and a position that I do not envy. But here is where I take exception and yes, place judgment: he has told her, in all seriousness, "I don't want to have children. I just want to have a son."

Words escape me. All I can think is that in his grief, he is reflecting on how much he loved his father. And now he wants to produce someone who will love him with the same intensity (and he in return). Ultimately, he wants to guarantee that his son will grieve as bitterly at his funeral as he did at his own father's.

If I never see either of these men again, it will be too soon.

Chances are, dear reader, that you think I'm taking this all just a little too far. That's okay. I can practically guarantee that I think you don't go far enough. Maybe someday, once I've cooled down and you're feeling brave, we can try to meet halfway.

A Cure for Ella

2007-05-12T23:43:00.000-07:00

A more newsy blog is overdue and forthcoming, but time is of the essence to post briefly about something far more important than what Steve and I have been up to.

My friend Sarah is participating in the Great Strides walk in Portland on Saturday (the 19th). Great Strides is the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation's largest and most successful national fund-raising event.

Cystic fibrosis (CF) is a devastating genetic disease that affects tens of thousands of children and young adults in the United States. Research and care supported by the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation is making a huge difference in extending the quality of life for those with CF. However, we continue to lose precious lives to CF every day. That's why help is needed now more than ever to ensure that a cure is found sooner - rather than later.

Sarah's daughter Claire has a little friend named Ella. Her story is featured below (be sure to turn your volume up). Sarah and Claire are collecting donations for their walk on Saturday to help find a cure for CF and for little Ella.

You can help them reach their fundraising goals by clicking here:

http://www.cff.org/great_strides/SarahKennedy
http://www.cff.org/great_strides/ClaireKennedy

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

To learn more about CF and the CF Foundation, visit www.cff.org. If you are able to give, thank you!

The Natural Number Following 34 and Preceding 36

2007-02-24T23:59:00.000-08:00

Google "35", and you'll find nifty trivia from Wikipedia like:

In years of marriage, 35 is the coral wedding anniversary (uh, what am I supposed to do with that?!?)

Interstate 35 is a freeway that runs from Texas to Minnesota (a drive I might punish Steve with if he buys me coral for our 35th wedding anniversary)

35 is the minimum age (in years) of candidates for election to the position of President of the United States (a position I can assume in a mere 3 years to enact further and more severe punishment upon Steve if he buys me coral for our 35th wedding anniversary and forces me to drive Interstate 35 from Texas to Minnesota with him)

Google "35 years old", and the oddities include:

A Budweiser commercial showing how a clerk being diligent about checking ID can make a 35-year-old's day (darn, when was the last time my ID was checked?!?)

A list of 35-year-old whiskies from Whisky Magazine, which exists to "celebrate whiskies of the world" (maybe I need to start buying whisky - or is it whiskey? - to test this ID thing)

A Moscow news article reporting a 35-year-old man who underwent surgery to be relieved of what had initially been diagnosed as a tumor, but turned out to be the embryo of his unborn twin brother (gimme a whiskey NOW, or I will never recover from reading this article and seeing the picture attached to it!)

Google "Age 35", and this neat stuff appears:

Lots of links to articles regarding pregnancy after age 35 (oh goodie, there's still time)

Tips on how to stay young after age 35 (I'm betting the chances are lessened if one also has those previously mentioned children)

More tips, this time on landing Mr. Right at age 35 (ha! same bet as above but this time I'm betting more emphatically)

A website designed to help you meet and make a love match with an inmate who is, you guessed it, age 35 (a good backup plan in case Mr. Right is never quite landed, I suppose)

After I publish this post, I'll have to try all these Googles again to see if my blog appears. Happy 35th birthday, Steve! May this um, tribute of sorts remain in cyberspace for all eternity.

CSI: ND (Episode 1)

2007-02-11T18:41:00.000-08:00

Just when you thought CBS had it covered with CSIs in Las Vegas, Miami and New York ... now, they're hitting North Dakota? Rumors are swirling that several cast members from the movie Fargo (including Frances McDormand, William H. Macy and Steve Buscemi) will be reuniting for the new series, their combined star power overshadowing the likes of David Caruso (CSI: Miami) and Gary Sinise (CSI: New York). My not-so-secret hope is that one episode actually guest stars Sinise as a sociopathic hit man who sends his victim, Caruso, through a wood chipper.

Kidding! (Except for that last part.) Besides, North Dakota is a state, not a town, so don't think I didn't know that. "CSI: Fargo" didn't exactly accomplish my purpose here, however, which was to create a nifty little acrostic for a new feature on our blog:

Customer Service Is Not Dead!

It's so easy to complain about poor customer relations, and I am far too often guilty of doing so. To help me achieve strides in my pursuit of greater positivity, I'm going to start reporting episodes of customer service ranking from PRETTY DURN GOOD to FREAKIN' FABULOUS.

Guest star: The Plant Lady from Home Depot

Action: I am carrying two ceramic pots that I picked up from the indoor selection of, you guessed it, pots. I wander out into the gardening area to peruse that selection, passing The Plant Lady who greets me warmly.

I find nothing of interest there, and wander back inside to look at potting soil. The Plant Lady has just hoisted a giant plant into a shopping cart. She sees me and asks if I'm finding everything okay. I have barely begun my search, but decide to let her point me in the right direction, which she does. I thank her and say something about just going to get a cart (since I'm about to wander off in the opposite direction of where she just pointed me). The Plant Lady immediately and cheerfully says, "Take mine!" She heaves the big plant out of the shopping cart before I can protest, smiles and waddles back out to the gardening area.

Rating: PERFECTION - What I wouldn't have asked for as a customer but most likely would have done as an employee. Lots of gold stars for you, Plant Lady!

A Crown for a Drama Queen

2007-01-11T21:53:00.000-08:00

I hate going to the dentist. Hate, as in, it practically makes me go into seizures. As in, I hate it more than you ever could even though you also think you hate going to the dentist.

Going to the dentist finally became more palatable, however, when we moved last fall and I got a new one. Dr. Smith. Or as I like to call him, Dr. Fabulous.

"You've had braces," Dr. Smith said to me, rather matter-of-factly, the first time I met him. It wasn't a question, but rather an assumption.

"Nope," I replied, smiling broadly.

I've had this exchange with dentists before. I have tons of fillings from my childhood, which have turned into two (so far) root canals in my adulthood .. but by golly, my teeth are nice and straight and fool 'em every time.

"And they're so white and bright," he went on to say. (Were I a single woman with a vivid imagination, I might have let myself read a little "I wonder how they'd look in candlelight, say, at dinner tonight?" in that. Have a mentioned that I really like this dentist?)

I smiled more broadly.

"Do you bleach?"

I scowled. So much for impressing Dr. Delicious.

Thus, because I have, indeed, bleached my teeth in the past, and because my last root canal wasn't properly completed, I was sent to the dental lab for a "shade match" for my new crown. Today was that day.

I arrive at the lab and peek in the windows. People are bent over their work stations, busily working on, I don't know, teeth? It all appears very "employee only" and not where I should be checking in. So I walk back to the reception area and wait to be helped. The reception desk is quite tall, and I am quite short .. I can barely see the receptionist through her computer monitors and plant collection. She is finishing up a phone call.

"Can I help you?", she barks at me. At least, I think it's at me. I try to position myself where we might actually be able to see each other.

"Yes, I'm not sure if this is where I should be. I have a 2 pm appointment ..."

"Mary?", she interrupts, "I don't have a Mary on the schedule."

I look at her blankly. Is she talking to me? Or is she still on the phone? She's wearing a hands-free headset and I can't be sure ....

She stares at me. "Did you say your name was Mary?"

She must be talking to me, I decide. My mind is scrambling to figure out why she thought I said my name was Mary. "No", I finally manage to blurt out, "My name is Ronda. I was saying that I'm here for a shade match and I don't know where to check in."

"I thought you said your name Mary," she says flatly.

"I didn't say what my name was!", I exclaim, not so flatly.

She's no Dr. Smith, I grumble to myself. That man can understand every word I gurgle and gargle at him when he's working on my mouth. "Gllecchhh aaahhlggrrr", I'll tell him. "Isn't that fascinating," he'll murmur in return.

Ms. Charming instructs me to return to the lab. I do so, and am promptly escorted back to the reception area (as one apparently needs protective eye wear in the lab, and my $8 sunglasses perched on top of my head just wouldn't do. No working on teeth for me!). Thankfully, I am brought directly into a room and seated. "Oh, you have Or-ellll," my escort tells me, drawing out the second syllable of his name in such a way that I can't tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing. She scampers out of the room before I can clarify or protest.

Orell, as it turns out, is a portly, middle-aged foreign man who is balding on top but sports a nifty comb-over. He eyes me and immediately tells me I look familiar. I eye him and immediately decide he looks like a serial killer.

"Do you work for Kaiser?", he asks me. 'Do you kill people?', I want to ask him.

He doesn't say much else, except to grunt instructions at me in his thick accent: "Turn your head .. more .. open your mouth .. more .." I desperately miss Dr. Smith's velvet voice and his polite requests: "Can you please .. that's just perfect .. thank you so much .."

As Orell pokes at my lips and gums, I sit there imagining his co-workers being interviewed on the evening news, utterly shocked to find that he has killed multiple patients. "I just can't believe it. Orell? He's a little quiet, but he's so nice. He would never do anything like this!"

I finally complete my shade match, and then am forced to fill out a survey. Blessedly, it is short. I don't have anything nice to say. On the plus side, I now had something to blog about. And hey: completing it brings me one step closer to another dental office date with Dr. Dreamy, when he'll give me my new crown.

Now who else would treat a girl so good?

If You've Ever Eaten a Finger Sandwich ..

2006-12-31T20:10:00.000-08:00

I'm not a big fan of either rap or alcohol (I know: how very square of me), but this commercial for Smirnoff Raw Tea is one of the tastiest bits I've ever seen! You'd be laughing too if you heard "Martha's Vineyard" and "hollaback" used in the same sentence. A few more lines to wet your whistle:

"No one's hotter than a New England gangsta"

"Fine tea in the parlor makes the ladies holler"

"Haters like to clown our Ivy League educations, but they're just jealous 'cuz our families run the nation."

Click here for your exclusive access to the Tea Partay, yo!

Christmas Cards and Sadness

2006-12-31T00:25:00.000-08:00

"The first divorce in the world may have been a tragedy, but the hundred-millionth is not necessarily one."
The late Anatole Broyard, literary critic for the New York Times

This being my first blog in almost two months, I realize it should be light-hearted, and I intended it to be. But I experienced something tonight that I feel compelled to write about, and the other thoughts - of belated holiday cheer, a recounting of our recent bed & breakfast stay, renewed energy for 2007 - will have to wait.

Tonight I've been tying up the loose ends of our Christmas correspondence. One thing led to another, as it often does when I'm working on a "simple" project, and I came upon a box full of cards, letters and photos we received in 2004 and 2005. I decided, before simply tossing them, to indulge my rarely-emerged nostalgic side and read them all one more time.

I came across one from a woman who attended the youth group that Steve and I ran when we were in New York. A quirky, funny girl who, admittedly, was one of our pets. How things change! She has since married and had two children, and we kept abreast of her new life only through our annual Christmas card exchange.

I recalled as I reread their 2004 letter my feelings of shock to hear about her health scare that summer, a lingering sickness that they feared was leukemia but miraculously cleared. I then caught sight of what was to be their family website, realizing I had never checked it out.

Tonight I finally did. Written by her husband, it is a poetic and mysterious site which darkly hinted that she was no longer a part of their lives. "A new life", it said. "Soon, just me and the boys." My first thought was that she had, in fact, been truly ill and died. Or had been sick for all this time and was finally losing her battle with life, a fact he was coming to terms with for the sake of their children. How could we have not heard? Nausea crept over me.

Probing further, desperate for answers, I found an angry piece written about Christmas cards; how she hated sending them, how she ridiculed his desire to do so. The piece sputtered on about how she made taking pictures for these cards a miserable experience, and vacation a miserable experience, and most things a miserable experience. He spoke of vowing to never do these things with her again. His rant trailed off at the mention of vows ...

Divorce, not death. Though never said outright, it must be. She remains unnamed throughout his site, not much is said of her at all (certainly nothing pleasant), and she is conspicuously missing from all pictures.

It seems a logical conclusion when I summarize it, but the tone of the site is sad, almost devasted, and it reminds me more of mourning than anything.

And yet, that's how it must be. Divorce. A death of something. A period of mourning. Broken vows. Broken hearts. Lost dreams. Lost ways.

In retrospect, I knew this was coming. Not the end of their marriage, in particular. But the end for someone. I have thought often, inexplicably, over the last couple of weeks about the possibility of someone we know - friends, family - divorcing. I expected it to be someone we're closer to. I wondered how it would go - where they would each live, who would keep in touch with us.

There is a part of me - the same part that had this "premonition", of sorts - that wants to find her. To make contact with her. To let her know that she doesn't need to look at us as her former youth leaders who might judge her or condemn her for the "sin" of divorce. To assure her that we're so much more than that. That she's so much more to us than a divorcee.

Unfortunately, I only have her former address, where it appears she no longer lives. Even more unfortunately, I sent her and her family a Christmas card on Friday. If her husband has not received it yet, addressed to the two of them, he will soon.

We don't really know him. We met him once, shortly after they started dating. They met online, and we were dubious. (Yet who were we to judge; we who got engaged three weeks after our first date?) But now I felt compelled to make contact with him, as well, as he was about to get bombarded with our ignorant, cheerful Christmas greetings. So I sent him an email. Perhaps mostly because I couldn't find her. A brief one, extending our apologies for not knowing about the change in family dynamic, and for the inadvertent pain or hurt our card may cause.

Did I go too far? No farther than sending the card, I suppose. I don't expect to hear from him. I don't expect him to forward our card to her. I don't expect anything but to be sad about this for some time.

I have never before associated Christmas cards with sadness. But for our friend and her husband, their chasmic approach to Christmas cards became the parallel for all the ways their marriage was miserable, and all the ways she kept him from joy. Their 2004 card that I read with happy expectations tonight led me to a well of sadness. And the card I innocently sent the other day will inevitably bring him to the same place.

Having taken Anatole Broyard's quote out of context, he may well be saying that the effects of divorce on humankind overall, in this day and age, is no longer a tragedy. But in our own personal life dramas, I'm quite certain it still is.

#64: Pet Beeker & Crawford

2006-11-04T23:02:00.000-08:00

For years, when I have felt overwhelmed, I have turned to the coping mechanism of sleep. When I worked at 911/Police Dispatch, I learned a vital new skill for being overwhelmed: pick the most important task, complete it, move on to the next. Repeat until the chaos dies down .. because eventually it will.

I often try to employ this new, more productive coping skill in my home life. Right now, I have a list a mile long of things to accomplish before November 18th (the date that I'm hosting an event at our home). About an hour ago, I found myself sitting on my couch, frozen with indecision and an utter lack of motivation.

I tried to put myself in "dispatch" mode .. to no avail. I didn't want to paint. I didn't want to shop. I absolutely did not want to do one more load of laundry. Unlike dispatching - where inaction can have disastrous results - all of those things could wait. Still, they niggled at my conscience, my to-do list calling to me from the kitchen - making my brain beg me for sleep, even though I wasn't tired.

I finally opted for neither work nor sleep; instead, I decided it was time to take the focus off of Ronda for a while. Truly, nothing brings me greater joy than making a difference in someone's life (or even their day) .. and luckily I know an incredibly easy way to do that each day. I simply clicked on the following websites and in less than 5 minutes, helped to accomplish some pretty amazing things.

The Hunger Site ... where, after clicking today, I was told: "Your click helps feed the hungry with the value of 1.1 cups of staple food. Today, you and others have generated the value of 90,810 cups of food."

The Rainforest Site ... where, after clicking today, I was told: "Your click has funded the preservation of 11.4 square feet of endangered rainforest. Today, you and others have protected the value of 579,883 square feet of land."

The Animal Rescue Site ... where, after clicking today, I was told: "Your click provided the value of .6 bowls of food and care to a rescued animal in a shelter or sanctuary. Today, you and others have generated the value of 50,550 bowls of food."

The Literacy Site ... where, after clicking today, I was told: "Your click, along with others' today, helps children in need discover the joy of books. Today, you and others have generated the value of 468 books for children in need."

The Breast Cancer Site ... where, after clicking today, I was told: "Your click, along with others today, will fund free mammograms for women in need! On Nov.03, you and others who clicked on the "Fund Free Mammograms" button funded 12.7 mammograms for underprivileged women."

The Child Health Site ... where, after clicking today, I was told: "Your click, along with others' today, provides basic but critical health services to more than 1,000 children. Each click helps prevent life-threatening diseases, restore vision to blind children, and enable child amputees to walk. Today, you and others have helped 867 children with your daily click."

Ultimately, not one thing on my to-do list will take only five minutes to accomplish. But in that amount of time, incredible things - all infinitely more important than uncut coupons - were! And all without being the least bit overwhelming.

Ahhh. I really do feel much better. Maybe, since I'm spreading the love, I'll go pet the cats for a while. That's gotta be somewhere on that long list ...

How Do You Spell R-E-L-I-E-F ?

2006-10-29T01:51:00.000-08:00

I'm willing to bet that I think about babies more than any other childfree woman out there.

I'd love to claim that my obsession is due to the fact that I think often of the wonderful women in my life who recently had or will be having a baby (which IS true) .. but that only explains it in part. The other reason is a man named Jerry.

I belong to an email list called The Childfree List (because it's nice to know we're not the only ones out there). Today, a woman wrote a message asking for advice: she and her decidedly CF boyfriend are talking of marriage; she has seesawed about having children but is feeling the pressure to make a decision. In her own words:

"My boyfriend has pointed out that many divorces are a result of one person wanting children when the other does not. He's asked me to decide whether or not I want children before we decide about getting married, since it would seem pointless to get married if I want children .. and we get divorced in a few years because of that."

Jerry Steinberg, the "Founding Non-Father of NO KIDDING!" (the international social club for childless and childfree couples and singles), gave her the following advice.

"People often ask me for help in deciding whether they should have children, and the best advice I have come up with so far is this:

"At least 20 times a day for at least a week, ask yourself, 'How would having a child change what I am doing right now?' Ask it when you wake up, when you eat, when you talk on the phone, when you read the newspaper, when you exercise, when you go to the bathroom, when you relax, when you go to bed, etc., etc.

"Then determine whether most of the changes would be welcomed or resented."

This is not the first time I've heard Jerry give this advice, and I certainly didn't hear it before resolving the "kids/no kids" debate in my heart and mind. But I find myself asking it 20 times a day - at least! - anyway. The answer? A predictable "resentment". Or more accurately, "relief". Relief, when I think about how painting my fireplace would have taken even longer than 5 hours if I had children. Relief, when I can put my cats in the garage for the night so I can get a good night's sleep. Relief, when I think about bedwetting and hear about school violence and see girls' fashion and worry about the effects of overpopulation on the environment ..

I think this is a fascinating exercise even if someone is absolutely positively convinced that babies are in their future. Though it may not change their minds, it might help prepare parents-to-be for some of the demands and changes they will be facing.

What do you think?

Pregnancy Makes Your Brain Shrink

2006-10-08T01:48:00.000-07:00

Rest assured, my pregnant friends, and be sure to let your husbands know: "Pregnancy Brain" is a real phenomenon! Click to read this short, empowering article: Pregnancy Makes Your Brain Shrink

(And here I always thought brain shrinkage is what caused women to want to become pregnant in the first place! Tee hee!)

;-)

The Wedding Crashers

2006-10-07T13:01:00.000-07:00

Greetings from our exotic living room! Having a wonderful time; wish you were here!

Last night was my cousin Katie's wedding. In typical Steve and Ronda fashion, we forgot to bring our camera, so we missed many photo ops at the gorgeous Lakeside Gardens, complete with swans. A quick snapshot with the mosquitoes in our living room will have to substitute.

It was a lovely outdoor ceremony, and though it was a bit chilly at 7 o'clock, the rain from earlier had blessedly stopped. I was honored to be part of the ceremony by providing some of the music. My marionette-playing-banjo-ventriloquism act was a hit! The highlight of the ceremony for me, however, was hearing about how Katie and Justin met; rather, how Justin stalked Katie until she noticed him. Or something like that. (Welcome to the family!)

During the reception, I decided to liven things up even more - I went up with all the single ladies and fought my way into catching the bouquet. Then I went up with all the single men and muscled my way into catching the garter. Okay, I did neither. But the "Mission Impossible" music playing during the merriment made me wish I had. Predictably, we instead sat and enjoyed the company and the delicious food, notably the Brie en Croute (best pronounced with an over-the-top twangy Southern accent). It was great seeing family and friends from the Midwest.

There were many toasts during the reception, but my uncle Tom's was particularly stirring. I always forget how poetic and articulate he is. As he spoke of Katie's essence and how everything she does in life is a dance, I realized just how much we've missed by not spending more time with her since her move to Oregon. Thankfully - God willing - we have more time with her, and now we have the added blessing of Justin.

Congratulations to you both.

"Wonderful" News

2006-09-30T19:37:00.000-07:00

I started a blog a couple of weeks ago where I was going to post a picture of a funky dinosaur and ramble about how I'm a Postablogslackasaurus .. but I never finished it (although I'm sure the opportunity to do so will arise someday). Who says procrastination doesn't pay off in the form of actual newsworthiness?!?

Steve and I have become an uncle and aunt again .. the first baby to arrive from Ronda's side of the family.

Mirana (meaning "wonderful" or "grace") Sophia was born to Ronda's sister Sonja and her husband Fares on Thursday, September 28th at 2:07 am. She weighed in at 7 lbs 3 oz and stretched out to 21 inches long. (As I know nothing about babies, these measurements are either remarkable, or remarkably normal. I would ask my sister, but, well ... she seems to have lost all objectivity. Go figure.)

Mom and baby will most likely be leaving the hospital tomorrow, and both parents are just a little bit excited to begin their life with her.

I figured some baby pictures might be more appreciated than the dinosaur clipart previously mentioned, so go ahead - feast your eyes on our newest niece:

Deliciousness & Nautilusness

2006-08-24T13:02:00.000-07:00

Thursday the 17th was our 10 year wedding anniversary. Steve had to work, so we celebrated this weekend with a quick trip up to Seattle.

Our drive up on Monday was uneventful. We mourned the move of our friends Mike and Crystal as we passed their old exit in Vancouver, cursed the couple that bought their home enabling the move, and considered committing acts of vandalism to the home. Or maybe that was just me.

After arriving at Chambered Nautilus, our bed and breakfast inn, we took a brief stroll through the neighborhood. Within walking distance of the University of Washington campus, the street was a mix of beautiful old homes - some turned fraternity/sorority house - and rather unattractive student housing. We passed a granola girl having a yard sale. She had the most gorgeous huge dog with her, guarding some nasty dining room chairs and other random items for sale. She reminded me of the hippies that would hang out at the University of Oregon campus in Eugene, neither students nor employed, begging for money. "If you're so hungry, eat your dog", people would quip testily at them.

We walked further. Frat boys with no shirts on were spraying each other with a garden hose in their front lawn and screaming like little girls. Broken glass covered a side street .. discarded vodka bottles? victim windows from car prowls? A stairway covered in Sharpie graffiti (collegiate witticisms such as "Bush sucks") led to a community garden. And on the sidewalk, some coins. 35 cents! I bent to pick them up, then looked around sheepishly to see if someone was snarking at me through a window. Glued to the ground, those blasted coins! I wondered how many other spendthrifts had been conned. Steve laughed happily at my expense.

Upon recommendation, we ate dinner at the Metropolitan Grill. "Steaks that melt in your mouth", we were promised. The Met (as it is supposedly called by those in the know) lived up to the hype, but I was wooed less by the steak than by the twice baked potatoes that Steve ordered. He gave me a bite. My eyes opened wide with surprise - I have never felt this way about a potato before! He offered me a second bite. My eyes narrowed seductively. "Hello, deliciousness", I murmered as I brought the fork to my mouth. "Helloooo", waved a bored and neglected Steve from across the table.

We gorged ourselves on dinner and dessert, a giant tower of carrot cake with buttercream frosting and vanilla ice cream. Food coma set in early and it took us far longer than it should have to find our car in the underground parking garage. We returned to our well-appointed room (the Crow's Nest Chamber, if you're interested in seeing some pictures) and .. skipping to breakfast, we met a gal from New Mexico, which gave us further opportunity to curse Mike and Crystal in Arizona. Funny .. she and her husband were vacationing together in Seattle, but they traveled separately - she by plane, he by motorcycle. She was originally from the East Coast (Boston area), and quite a talker .. so the travel arrangements made more sense after that.

On Tuesday, we went to the Woodland Park Zoo. What an incredibly beautiful place! The habitats were so lush, and we saw quite a bit more active wildlife than usual. Orangutans appeared to interact with us through the glass barrier, the giraffes literally crossed our paths when they were moved from the Savannah to their pens, we fed small tropical birds from our hands, and a lion roared for several seconds when we were nearby. Granted, it seemed more like he was hacking up a giant furball than trying to impress us with his ferociousness, but it was still infinitely more interesting than seeing him sleep on a big rock.

That evening we took in the Yankees/Mariners game at Safeco field. A crushing loss - the Mariners hit a game winning home run in the bottom of the ninth - made redemptive by the fact that a) it shut up the couple of overly obnoxious Yankee fans near us, and b) the Yankees turned around and won the following night when several of Steve's coworkers (all Mariners' fans) were present.

We left Wednesday after another scrumptious breakfast and conversation with a military couple from the Washington, D.C. area. They were well-traveled people who shamed us by remembering and using our names throughout the conversation, reacted badly to Steve's suggestion that every true baseball fan should admit that they'd love to have a George Steinbrenner as their team owner, and convinced me that if they could easily ski the Swiss Alps I could perilously ski Mt. Hood this winter.

On the way home, we hit the exceptional Museum of Glass gift store in Tacoma and picked up "Jupiter", a new addition to our collection of Celestial Series weights. We now have three - one for each visit up to the Seattle area. It should only take us another hundred years or so to complete the collection.

Our last stop was Ikea, where we hoped to score big on some new furnishings for the home but only did so-so. Significant purchases included a new TV stand (so we could reconfigure the furniture in our living room and consequently entertain more comfortably) and a display case for our previously mentioned glass weight collection (so they can stop collecting dust on the office desk). We feasted on Swedish meatballs and lingonberry sauce and sighed contently, basking in the knowledge that Portland will be getting its own Ikea in 2007.

Not the most glamorous way to celebrate 10 years of marriage, but neither Steve nor I are all that glamorous. Simple, happy, best friends still in love .. yes.

Missing/Endangered: Tweetie Bird

2006-08-15T00:07:00.000-07:00

I had my first paying gig as a home stager this weekend. Ah yes, I can hear you: "a who-wha?" A pillow fluffer. A curtain preener. Someone who comes in to make homes for sale all "ooh" and "ahh".

Okay, for a slightly more technical definition, check out my website: www.room-to-move.net. If you like the tasty little sample picture and want to gorge on some fun "Before & Afters", you'll want to check out my Photo Gallery page while you're there. (Isn't that bed just yummm?)

I sent a letter to the realtor who helped us purchase our current home, letting her know that I started my own staging business. As luck would have it (lucky for me, anyway, not so much for her), she just lost her best stager and had a house in desperate need. It's been on the market 2-1/2 months, and has had 3 or 4 seriously interested parties who kept saying "this is one of our top two choices". In each case, the buyers chose the other home.

It's a nice house - two years old, in good condition with some great features - but there was nothing really memorable about it, much less "wow". After six hours of staging on Sunday (preceded by an unmentionable number of hours spent shopping for props), I think "wow" was achieved. The realtor and homeowners were both thrilled, anyway.

I was pretty pleased myself. I felt a bit like the cat who swallowed the canary.

Hopefully it will now sell quickly, the true measure of success. I feel like a million bucks even without that affirmation though .. the homeowners told the realtor that I was "delightful" and completely dissolved their preconceived image of me as some "hoity toity decorator". (I know, far-fetched and laughable! The delightful part, that is. Heh.) They asked if I ever help people get set up in their new homes as well, so hopefully there's another gig lurking in my near future.

Now, if I could get a job a week, I'd be the dog who swallowed the cat. (Add Sylvester to that missing/endangered list, why dontcha.)

Ode to an Odor

2006-08-03T23:42:00.000-07:00

Something stinks. It really reeks.
Of the litter box I do not speak.
Nay, something else, wretched and fowl -
It makes upon my face a scowl.

It turns my insides inside out.
It no doubt makes me pout and shout.

This dreadful stench. It has a name.
On dear friends it's staked its claim.
Their fragrance which was once so sweet
Will soon wilt in the desert heat.

Arizona! Oh, heinous state
I hate you - rate you not so great!

Why must you lure my friends away?
(How can I postpone moving day?)
I'd shake my fist skyward, I suppose
If I didn't need it to plug my nose.

Farewell, then, if you must go
I know you need the dough to flow

Mike, Crystal, Elliot - we'll really miss you.
Good grief! Someone hand me a tissue!
I know - I mustn't be a hater.
Good luck! God speed! We'll see you later!

___________________________________

Mike, Crystal and Elliot's Blog:

http://www.3catsandababy.blogspot.com/

Two Snots Don't Make a Right

2006-07-22T23:54:00.000-07:00

Oh, me and my quick temper. When will I learn? Forgive me, Lord!

So if you read my last blog, you know I posted some shades on Craigslist. They were titled "Room-Darkening Roll Up Blinds", and since I probably wasn't calling them exactly the right thing, the first part of my description read, "We can't remember what these are called, exactly .. but we have two vinyl roll-up blinds ..."

I get an email from a gal tonight that says, simply (unedited by me):

"there called shades"

That's it. A little rude, I think.

But what got me all fired up was her signature:

"No Jesus, No Peace .. Know Jesus, Know Peace"

Now, some people would just roll their eyes and think "whatever" and click 'delete'. Some nicer, calmer, more rational people. Some might even smile at the signature line and with a contented sigh say, "Yes, indeed". Some holier people. Me? Noooooooo ... I immediately wonder what other kinds of bitty messages she's sending to people that rub them the wrong way, not only about her, but about Jesus. I start steaming about Christians who do more harm in this world than good, and I .... I fired off an equally hypocritical message to her. Sigh.

Here it is, I confess:

"And the first word in your sentence should have been 'they're', the contraction for 'they are'.

Are you interested in them? Or are you just trying to be helpful?

Because how you're coming off is snotty and hypocritical, a poor Christian example of the loving Son of God who you are apparently professing to know."

Gulp. For those of you that are the praying types, will you do this for me?

1 - Pray that she doesn't hunt me down and kill me.
2 - Pray that I would learn my lesson, bite my tongue, sit on my hands, count to ten, hide in my bedroom closet and do whatever else I need to do to get my lightening quick temper under control.

After all .. if I know Jesus, shouldn't I also know peace .. within myself?

One Man's Junk ..

2006-07-20T18:50:00.000-07:00

Not that kind of junk, sickos.

If you ever want to feel popular, post something "For Sale" on Craigslist. Better yet, post something for "Free". Or be really wild and crazy (read: stupid) and do what I did: post three things at once. Oy!

We listed our old sliding glass door for $100. (Well, I did. Steve is at work and will probably have something to say tomorrow about the low price. What can I say? I thought it was a good compromise between the others I saw listed from $0-$300+.) I have a guy who wants to come pick it up tomorrow night and another gal calling herself "a little old lady who needs it more than he does" .. who just might show up here tomorrow night and beat him with a cane. Oops - another email just came in.

This is more exciting than the last few minutes of an eBay auction!

We (I) also listed a couple of roll-up shades ($10 each or two for $15, what a bargain, eh?) that we installed as a temporary fix when we first moved in (as the house was sans window coverings). Less of a hot commodity, apparently .. but one guy says it sounds like just what he needs. Neat.

The kid that gets around, however, is our pile of river rock that we're offering for free. I thought I was going to have to BEG people to take this off our hands .. but I got 7 responses in less than an hour! Vultures! I love the bribes people offer up: "I'm not one of those flaky Craigslisters who doesn't show up." "I'm in Troutdale too so I can be there lickity-split". Notice not ONE of them has tried to differentiate themselves from the crowd by saying "I'll give you five bucks for the whole pile."

Yes, Tom Peterson (and Gloria too!), free IS a very good price!

This could be addicting. Why, oh why, have I been so diligent about donating unused items to Goodwill?!? I could have gotten money for those things .. had people fighting over me - er, them ......

Do you think I should make sure there's some furniture left in the house by the time Steve gets home? (If I never post again, it's because I've sold the computer.)

Oooh, gotta run .. two new mail messages in my inbox!

- PS to Mike G - Makes me laugh when I think of you thinking about Tom Peterson's junk right now. Teehee!

Baby Rabies

2006-07-15T23:46:00.000-07:00

Here's a fun piece of trivia for you to pull out when the party conversation gets dull: Who campaigned for Senior Class President of Faribault Senior High in 1993? Ronda, that's who. My campaign manager was an off-beat theater/band guy named Pete who never quite fit into any of the typical high school social categories and was widely appreciated in the student body. He dressed in all black for his campaign speech and, in a magnificent imitation of Hannibal Lector, threatened to eat people's livers if they didn't vote for me.

Ah Pete, whatever happened to you?

My speech, slightly less colorful or frightening, was more of an anti-campaign speech, which are typically full of idle promises about what one would accomplish during their term if elected. I pretty much told the student body what I WOULDN'T be doing. (Ronda-ry, Ronda-ry, quite contrary.)

All that to say this: in the following blog, I am NOT saying that I don't like your kids, or even kids and babies in general. I am NOT saying that. Clear enough?

When I was in my twenties, I thought that my peers were pretty darn baby crazy.

I had nooooo idea what was awaiting me in my thirties.

Baby rabies. Women, foaming at the mouth, at the mere mention, sight (or most likely, smell) of a baby.

It's gonna be a long decade.

Most of you know that Steve and I don't have and don't want kids. We're what's known as "childfree", or "CF". (Baby rabid women may have another name for us, bwaha!) Some people use the term "childless", which infers some sort of loss .. whereas "childfree" resounds as more of a choice.

We knew we were going to be CF when we married almost 10 years ago. We heard a lot of "you'll change your minds" and "you've got plenty of time" and "never say never" during the first few years of our marriage. Other than that, however, there wasn't a lot of pressure to reproduce. We married young, before many of our friends, and no one had really started having kids yet.

Now, however, most of our friends have or intend to have children in the near future. And that's fine. We love our friends and we want them to make choices in their lives that make them happy. We would never dream of trying to convince them to NOT have kids. Well, okay ... maybe a little daydream here or there ..... kidding!

So that's not the issue. And no one is really pressuring us to have kids at this point, either, so that's also not the issue. (I probably spoke too soon: I'm 31 now and some might say I'm RUNNING OUT OF TIME!)

Anyway. Baby rabies. That's the issue. The disease that drives baby-obsessed women completely out of their once fully-functioning minds.

I was at a "girl's night out" earlier this week, hosted by a dear friend and attended by a bunch of women I'd never met before. Nice ladies, all very friendly to me .. until they started talking about their children. "Do you have kids?" a gal asked me a few minutes into the conversation. "No", I answered with a smile. "I'm sorry", she said, and turned back to the other ladies.

She's sorry that I don't have kids? She's sorry because she thinks I can't have kids? She's sorry that she can no longer relate to me and that I'm not worthy of her attention? Huh?

I expect that conversations will hover around topics known to most participants. The stories that followed about feeding dramas and never wearing necklaces/earrings/black shirts around two-year-olds .. well, those were to be expected. It was when the conversation turned to a woman whose "maternal urges are RAGING" that I realized these women were not just mommies, but infected with baby rabies.

She and her husband (let's call him, oh, Bob) have been married three years and have started "discussions" about a baby. Another woman notes that Bob seems to be avoiding her at church .. and is it because he's afraid she's going to try to convince him to have a baby? Titters of laughter circle the room. The woman assures her friend that she's "not imaging things .. Bob really IS avoiding you - and in fact, anyone who will bring up the issue!" Titters of laughter turn into gales, and the conversation quickly degenerates into how he'll change his mind (and how to change his mind), reminders to each other not to stop in for unexpected visits and jokes of "we'll know what you're up to if you don't answer the phone" ... I left the room before I heard if anyone actually encouraged this gal to "oops" her husband.

Does no one even care that Bob might need a little time and space to sort out how he feels about this intensely personal issue? Does Bob's wife ask her friends or family to back off a bit so he doesn't feel like a cornered animal? Forget giving him more time: Is it even a blip on people's radar that Bob might not even WANT a baby?

GAAACKCKCK!

Tonight, I was at a bridal shower. Each torn ribbon symbolized a potential BABY! Each little piece of lingerie was going to ignite the passion to MAKE A BABY! There was even a gift enclosed in a pink bucket with a picture of a baby on it! What the .. aren't we at a WEDDING shower?!? I found myself chanting a calming mantra under my breath, "first comes love, then comes marriage, THEN comes a baby .."

Steve has it easy. Sure, his friends are my friends, and they're all having babies. But men don't obsess the way women do. Men can relax and have fun and tell jokes and play games while women .. sit around with the kids. Or talk about the kids. Completely lose themselves in the kids. Ladies: I'm gonna go chill with the men if you don't give me a break once in a while. (Well, even then, I still might have to play tom-boy for a bit.) Here, use my sleeve: wipe the foam from around your mouth, take a few deep breaths and remember that even though I love you (and your off-spring) unconditionally, I also loved you PRE-BABY.

End of rant.

Oh, and incidentally .. I beat my high school opponent and silenced his rabid fans, who found it appropriate to write "bitch" on my campaign posters. Ahhhh. One of only three distinct memories I have of serving as my Class President. The other two I'll save for another day.

Lebanon (as in the country, for you locals)

2006-07-13T17:39:00.000-07:00

Friends that are reading this post may be aware that my sister is married to a Lebanese man. He has many, many friends and family members still in Lebanon, and we are very concerned about the increasing violence that has been occurring there since Wednesday.

I am no lover of politics or the media, and I readily admit that I struggle to grasp both the enormity and the intricacies of conflicts like these.

What is not escaping my attention, however, is the mention of "dozens of Lebanese citizens" dead. Citizens that I pray are not my extended family who have so lavishly accepted my sister as one of their own. Or any of the gracious guests who embraced and kissed us at my sister's wedding. Or the lovely strangers who gave my parents a bowl of fresh grapes after they stopped to admire an arbor growing over their front door. Or the wonderful airport employee who helped Steve and I secure a flight out of Lebanon when we missed our first one due to us drinking in the sights a little too long.

War always breaks my heart. And, right or wrong, I always feel powerless to do anything about it. But this time, in addition to praying for peaceful resolution, I will be sending a quick email to my senators. If you feel so inclined to take either action, I would deeply appreciate it.

I have to. I've toured some of Lebanon's beautiful countryside. I've seen shepherds walking a small herd of goats along the road in the mountains. I've stepped foot into some of the exquisite stone churches there. I've seen their famous and exotic cedars. I've dipped my toes in the warm Mediterranean Sea (see photo above). I've walked through the ruins where paper was invented. I've wandered through downtown Beirut at midnight and been awed at the reconstruction that has occured there since the last war.

If you would like to join me in sending a letter to your senators, you can do so at www.senate.gov. If you're not sure what to say, I can provide you with a copy of what I'll be sending. And if you want to do a bit of reading on the conflict, I've attached an article from CNN online below.

http://www.cnn.com/2006/WORLD/meast/07/13/mideast/index.html

Being Poor

2006-07-13T01:03:00.000-07:00

I've been spinning my wheels all night, working on our finances, looking for cheap furniture and part-time jobs on Craigslist, trying to make old furnishings work in our new home .. and generally being frustrated that I can't just go out and buy whatever I darn well please whenever I darn well feel like it.

Spinning those wheels in an attempt to turn straw into gold, I am. How very Rumplestiltskin-esque of me.

I turned back to my pile of paperwork that I abandoned earlier in the day and found an article I had saved from Heifer International's magazine "World Ark" (the May/June 2006 issue). An article that struck me deep the first time I read it, and stopped me in my tracks again tonight.

It's called "Being Poor", by John Scalzi. It can be read in its entirety at www.scalzi.com.
____________________________________________________________

Being poor is having to keep buying $800 cars because they're what you can afford, and then having the cars break down on you, because there's not an $800 car in America that's worth a darn.

Being poor is hoping the toothache goes away.

Being poor is going to the restroom before you get in the school lunch line so your friends will be ahead of you and won't hear you say "I get free lunch" when you get to the cashier.

Being poor is a heater in only one room of the house.

Being poor is hoping your kids don't have a growth spurt.

Being poor is thinking $8 an hour is a really good deal.

Being poor is finding the letter your mom wrote to your dad, begging him for the child support.

Being poor is not taking the job because you can't find someone you trust to watch your kids.

Being poor is hoping you'll be invited for dinner.

Being poor is needing that 35-cent raise.

Being poor is $6 dollars short on the utility bill and no way to close the gap.

Being poor is crying when you drop the mac and cheese on the floor.

Being poor is knowing you work as hard as anyone, anywhere.

Being poor is people surprised to discover you're not actually lazy.

Being poor is having to live with choices you didn't know you made when you were 14 years old.

Being poor is getting tired of people wanting you to be grateful.

Being poor is deciding that it's all right to base a relationship on shelter.

Being poor is a cough that doesn't go away.

Being poor is a $200 paycheck advance form a company that takes $250 when the paycheck comes in.

Being poor is knowing how hard it is to stop being poor.

Never Say Never

2006-07-12T23:52:00.000-07:00

I've been deliberating ... to blog or not to blog. Does anyone really care about The Secret Lives of Rolanda and Stuart, aka The Not So Exciting Really Quite Dull But None-The-Less Happy Existence of Ronda and Steve?

And then I wrote a bit in my journal tonight. Hmm, nice to take some time for reflection. And then I posted for the first time in an email mailing list I joined a couple of months ago. Ahh, very therapeutic. Then I got caught up on a couple of friends' blogs and I thought perhaps people might be as interested in us and our comings and goings and musings as we are in theirs.

Perhaps.

So, despite a very recent conversation with Steve where I expressed something along the lines of "I'll never see the need to have my own blog", a-blogging I have gone.

The deliberations turned to more important matters. Blogspot, or MySpace? (I'm sure there are other options out there, but I haven't the least desire to research them.) MySpace seems so high maintenance and .. meh. Blogspot won.

I'm sure it will be quite some time before my blog is everything I ever dreamed possible. Wait, we've already exceeded that. The deliberations will no doubt continue - template, content, links, oh my - and will surpass in importance the original question of, simply, to blog or not to blog.

Stay tuned.