Missfitz

Quiet Please...

2008-05-22T12:06:00.002-05:00

Just. Shut. Up.

I am so sick of the whining and the bullshit.

Yeah, I’ll admit it. I still read blogs of people I’m no longer terribly good friends with. Call it ex-stalking. For me it is vindication that I was right in having cleaned out that section of my closet. I like to go in and think to myself “Yup…you were right…selfish, self-absorbed, obnoxious, petty…” The list often continues for a while.

So I went to one today to read it. It goes on and on about how much life isn’t what they expected, isn’t what they wanted. Feeling trapped, feeling unsatisfied, etc. What a load of crap.

I teach students who come from nothing, go home to nothing, and STILL have a better attitude than this broad. They value every opportunity provided them. Even the worst offenders with the worst attitudes still have some varying levels of understanding that they, and only they, have the ability to change their situation.

But here is a grown human being with multiple degrees crying over life not ending up how it was planned. Well I have a tip for you. Life is unfair. Life sucks sometimes. But really? Quit your bitching and do something about it. Don’t like your job? Quit and find a new one. And yes, it is that easy. Don’t like being a slave to having “benefits”? There are plenty of affordable independent plans out there, so take a new job and get your own benefits. Don’t like the 9-5? Well golly gee, I can think of a million jobs that are shift-based and you can work a multitude of different schedules.

But no, it’s always someone else’s fault. It was “Boston’s” fault when this person was here. Now she’s left it all behind run away for a brand new fresh start, and yet is in the same old whining rut she was in before she left. Here’s a clue. It wasn’t Boston. It was your own damn attitude.

Don’t get me wrong. I whine. I complain. I bitch about my bad days, and I did my fair share of crying, particularly when my husband was overseas. But that was something that truly was out of my control. On the other hand, I didn’t like my job, so I got a new one. I didn’t like my living situation, so I saved up and we bought a condo. Right now I don’t like my waistline, so I’m kicking my own butt at the gym. I want to travel, so I’m saving up for it. I want to have babies, so I’m creating a financial plan to make that happen.

I think the heart of the matter is the difference between bitching and blaming. To bitch is inherent. If I have a bad day I’m going to bitch about it. But I’m not going to blame “Life” for not turning out the way I wanted. I’m going to blame myself for what needs fixing. My kids were bad at school? My fault for bad classroom management techniques. Living with my parents? My fault for not saving sooner/faster/more. (Fixed that one, thank goodness!) Problems with my spouse? My fault for not working harder at my own foibles and communication skills. There is not some evil monkey in my closet of life pointing his finger at me and ruining everything. It’s my own damn fault, and it’s my own responsibility to fix.

Just my two cents for the day.

Bliss

2008-01-24T16:59:00.000-05:00

There is a certain sense of freedom that is lost when you get married. And I know there are many of you out there shaking your heads saying you lose freedom when you get engaged, or move in together, or other such scenarios, but I beg to differ. Even living with someone there is still always that ability to stop, up to your elbows in their laundry and say, "if this keeps up, I can leave". Even engaged and living with someone there is the freedom, when the towels are on the floor again, to say, "if this keeps up we will just break it off". When you get married, that is gone. When you get married you've agreed, no matter what, that all of that stuff is part of the deal.
Which is, dear readers, why I have a headache. No, not an "I'm not in the mood tonight honey" headache. A real, pounding, "I think I might be high" headache. Where did this headache come from, you ask? Thank you for your concern. This headache comes from just having spent a half hour with the top half of my torso inside my still-hot dryer breathing in an obscene amount of baking ink and nail polish remover. Yes. You read that right. Funny image, right? Small blonde in yoga outfit with her ass end sticking out of her dryer, precariously perched on a dining chair, wiggling unflatteringly as she applies all of her elbow grease to ink stains.
This would be the breaking point for many. This would be the "that's it, I can't take it, I'm moving out" point. But not for me. Nope, now this, along with a million other embarassing, annoying, and exasperating experiences is part of "wedded bliss".
I told him, mind you. I caught the pen in the washer last time and removed it before it had a chance to heat up and explode all over favorite shirts, socks and boxers. I told him that he had to REMOVE pens from shirts prior to laundering. If I'm going to be doing the laundry, I should think that pen-removal is not a difficult request. And silly me, I thought that telling him that one time was sufficient. I thought that all the way up until that loud clanking sound woke me up from my "I'm sick, maybe some sleep will help" nap. That. Loud. Clanking. Sound. Shit.
Too late. One white undershirt, now looking like a jackson pollack masterpiece in monochrome. One favorite brown sweater now not so favorite. Several pairs of boxers, still usable, but oddly less-plaid than before. And one work polo, thank god, still intact and somehow not covered in black in splotches. And, dear readers, one dryer barrel positively covered in black ink. That. Did. Not. Want. To. Come. OFF!
I did what any self-aware, independent, college-educated, savvy girl would do. I called my mommy. She laughed. In a nice way. But she laughed and told me she had no idea. (Apparently she must be a better checker-of-shirts-for-pens than I am. That's what experience gets you.)
So I did what any girl-at-her-wits-end would do. I asked Captain Google. Captain Google told me that Nail Polish Remover and some elbow grease would get the stains out of my dryer.
It does. For future reference. In case you ever get married and can't just throw your hands in the air and go "On that note, I'm out of here!" Like me. But for that loss of freedom, I did in fact get a man I love. Even if he's a man who leaves pens in shirts and pants even after being told not to. Even if he will probably laugh his rear off when he hears this story. Even if he probably would have smacked my ass as it stuck out of our washer if he had been home.
So there you have it. I have given up the freedom to walk out in favor of wedded bliss. And I have a headache. And if the next time you see me, I smell a bit like nail polish remover, I do not want to hear it.
Seriously.

A New Exit Strategy

2007-12-23T22:36:00.000-05:00

So much has changed in my life in a few very very short months. And I realized this afternoon that all of the change can be summed up by my truck.

Yes, you read that right, my truck.

You see, as of June of 2007, my truck often sat lonely in the driveway as I walked to work. I walked because it was close. I walked because I worked at the same school I walked to as a child. And I walked because my salary was utterly pitiful and I could only afford to pay for the gas it took to get to graduate school and back. Running BeBe twice a month was not an option. It did a number on my shoe collection. I am still mourning a pair of flipflops worn to nothing in the heel. But at the end of June, I proudly drove my truck to my graduation, accepted my Masters and thrilled at the prospect of no more long trafficky drives and parking fees.

For most of the summer (with the exception of two glorious weeks) my passenger seat sat empty. Oh, sure there was the occasional friends, but I referred to most of my time in my car as "The ME Show". All me. All the time. And I spent a lot of time in the truck in the ME show going on nervewracking interview after nervewracking interview. You know...to get a new job, one without the aforementioned pitiful salary. The ME show consisted of a great deal of loudly sung 80's songs, and the occasional tearful rendition of "American Soldier" as I waited out those last few months.

September was a great time in the truck. In September, my passenger seat was full again. Full time full. Best day of my life, someone to make fun of my singing, someone to play with the charger and give me directions full. AND in September, my truck came out of morning commute retirement and proudly began wearing its Cambridge Teacher Parking Pass. It's green. It matches BeBe perfectly. I love it. The job, too.

And finally now. My very own, brand new exit strategy. I realized it today. I have a new exit coming home. I almost went to the exit for my parents' house, which used to be my house, but isn't my house anymore. And I realized just as I got onto Route 2, that there was another, BETTER exit. To get to my condo. To get to MY home. My brand new, I own it and don't pay rent, home. My home that makes my old home now my parents' home. My home that has a space in the back for BeBe. Her very own space.

So there she sits. The steadiest barometer of my life this year. 2007 has been the year of me and BeBe. And we like our new exit strategy. We like it a lot.

The things I didn't know

2007-05-29T22:56:00.000-05:00

I did not know what hard was. I thought hard was balancing graduate school and work. I know now that hard is balancing those things, working towards those goals, without my partner. Without my support, my rock, my best friend. I know now that hard is working towards them and wondering if they matter in the grand scheme of life.

I did not know what lonliness was. I thought lonliness was going to bed alone, or having no plans on a Friday night. I know now that lonliness is falling asleep in a bed that used to hold two bodies. I know now that lonliness is falling asleep worrying because we didn't get to "I love you" before the call dropped. I know now that lonliness is being surrounded by friends and family...and still feeling like no one will ever understand.

I did not know what fear was. I thought fear was the pounding in the chest after an averted accident, or the worry about ending up alone. I know now that fear is an unknown number on my caller ID, the number that could lead to the voice telling me I will experience a new kind of lonliness. I know now that fear is the knot in my stomach when I'm too afraid to even look at the news.

Most importantly I did not know what sacrifice was. I thought sacrifice was giving in on what I wanted to do on a Friday night, or letting someone else drive. I know now that sacrifice is giving up that which you would do anything to protect, because he has pledged to protect us all. I know sacrifice is watching others accept folded flags and knowing it could have been me, could be me next, and yet still holding my head high and responding "I'm proud". I know that sacrifice is knowing I would do anything and it will never be enough, but dammit I will try.

I did not know what strength was. I did not believe I had it. I know now that I have the kind of strength that few will ever know, that even fewer will ever understand. I know now that even my kind of strength will never compare to his.

For his hard is sleeping alone in a metal trailer. His hard is piecing back people and lives. His hard is waiting, and wondering and standing ready no matter what the call may be.

His lonliness is leaving it all behind. His lonliness is missing a wife, a brother, a family, a home. His lonliness is knowing that no one will ever understand besides those there with him.

His fear is constant, pervasive, and yet pushed aside with a will and a strength few will ever understand.

His sacrifice is all of the above to honor a contract signed with a sense of duty. His sacrifice is to give it up with the potential that it's forever. His sacrifice is more than me, it is everything.

And his strength is that he does it all. Better than me. Better than any of us.

He is a soldier. And I am his wife, friend, sister, lover, safety net, rock, and steadfast supporter.

And he has taught me things I never thought I could ever know.

Mad as hell

2007-05-22T22:19:00.000-05:00

I’m the kind of angry now
I’ve always wanted to be
The blame is finally on the head
Where it deserves to be
It’s not my fault this time,
It won’t weigh on my mind
The reason things have all gone wrong
Finally isn’t me.

I’m not making excuses anymore
I’m not looking for the good
You toyed with my life once too many
More than you ever should
I won’t take it on myself or
Let you put me on the shelf
I’ll make you face what you have done
For once I’m not here just for your fun

You brought me to this precipice
You made me look it in the face
You made me feel how I never should
You dared to ask me if I would
Forced into this corner but I won’t
Take this from you or anyone
I’m fighting back now
Taking what’s mine, this fall’s for you
To take alone this time it’s yours
You should have known.

Forgiveness will not be granted
For you it must be earned
This time I will not be the one
Laying down, getting burned.
I will not leave a window open
Where this door has closed
Keep on knocking till you’re
Battered, bruised cause I’m
Finally angry enough to say
I’m not lying down for you today.

Am I?

2007-05-16T18:43:00.000-05:00

Maybe I am selfish. In a little way.

I know what my reactions should be in times like this. And they were right on for the most part...I will support him. I will write, and call, and send mail and packagaes and lots of things to show I care. I won't turn my cell phone off, and I'll be someone to be counted on. Because those who will stand up and BE counted need people to count on.

So in that way, I checked off all the patriotic and friend-proper responses. I'm good.

But here's the problem. Underneath all those reactions that I had as a good friend? Was one horribly selfish one. I don't even want to admit I had it, but maybe by getting it off my chest it will help me not have it again.

I thought to myself, I don't want to do this again. I don't. I want to be DONE with Baghdad, done with Iraq. I want to be done with the worry and the wondering and the waiting. Up until last week I was going to be done in September. Done with spending all my time online and writing and in line at the post office. Done with avoiding the news and the papers and the frontpage of CNN. I thought I would be able to finally relax and know where everybody was and know what they were doing and know that they were safe. Or at least, if not safe, that they wouldn't have foreign nationals gunning for them every second of every day.

And now it'll be another year and a half before I get to breathe my official sigh of relief. I know I will always be an Army wife, sister, and friend. But I would really like deployment to be out of my lexicon for a while.

It won't be. And I have to live with that. And I will be all I can to him and for him, just like I am for all of them. But dammit...do I have to like it?

I Told You So

2007-05-11T23:51:00.001-05:00

It has been fewer than three weeks since the school shooting at Virginia Tech. And in that time, much has happened. A freeway has collapsed in northern California. Election 2008 debates have begun. Violent storms have killed in Texas. And over 100 soldiers have died in Iraq in the month of April. There is much to be aware of, to celebrate, to mourn.
But I hate to say I told you so. I signed online tonight to find that the leading story in my web browser was...you guessed it...
Paris Hilton's jail sentence.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled that the no-talent, overpriviledged shamelss, slutty, irresponsible, alcoholic tart finally got what's coming to her. I know whenever I speed in MY Bentley with the lights off with a BAC twice the legal limit, I get in a whole bunch of trouble..especially when I'm on probation with a suspended license. So to see justice meeted out to that waste of oxygen is thrilling.
However, it IS NOT NEWS! Nothing Paris Hilton does belongs anywhere other than the bottom of a trash heap. It does not belong as the "top story" anywhere.
Families burying their college sophomores is news. Bush excercising his veto like a petulant child is news. Soldiers dying in Iraq is news.
Slutty drunk drivers going to jail?
Not News.
What kind of world do we live in?

Mass Media

2007-05-11T23:50:00.003-05:00

33 people are dead in 4 hours of terror on a college campus. I wish I could say I'm more shocked, more appalled. I wish I could say I'm still sick to my stomach. I was when I first read it, and like many tragedies I think I will always remember where I was and who I was with. But the sickness, the upset didn't last as long as I think it should have.
It's true. This was a tragedy. It is terrible what has happened, lives have ended, families have been ripped apart, and an entire campus is reeling. But I know what will happen. In short time this will all fade off the radar, replaced with Congress bickering with Bush over bucks, replaced with Anna Nicole's baby getting handed over, replaced with Sanjaya getting voted off American Idol. Most of America will pretend to care, but when it comes down to the grocery checkout line, people will buy People to see what Britney's rehab was like, and not Time, to read about the lasting effects of this tragedy.
Am I a cynic? Perhaps. But I am only such because I already watched it happen once this year. And the first time the tragedy hit far closer to me than this one. A student walked into a bathroom with a knife and took another child's life. I need not say why this hits close to home, those who know me, know why. But I ask how long that stayed in the forefront of minds and media? Less than a week. Oh, I'm sure when the trial begins, there will be a flurry of coverage again, but it won't last.
Americans do not care about real tragedy for long. How long did donations pour in to Katrina victims? Weeks. And then it all stopped. How long did people mourn actual members of the armed forces coming home in boxes? Maybe months, but now it's a faceless ever-growing number that people care little about. But how long was Anna Nicole's face splashed across the evening news? Over a month.
I wish I could say I was still feeling ill over this. I wish I could say I hurt for all those involved. But more than anything I feel, is anger over what I know will happen. Just wait till Paris wrecks a car, or Lindsay goes back to rehab, or they find those Rove emails.

Time Keeps Ticking

2007-05-11T23:50:00.001-05:00

A lot of things have happened in the past few weeks to make me really consider time. People have such different ideas about time, how it passes, what makes something long, or something else short. What may seem to fly by to one person may be an eternity ticking slowly away to another.
In the past day and a half over thirty people have asked me about whether or not my husband will be included in the new extensions approved for soldiers overseas. Each time I explain that this particular extension does not apply to him, but that nothing is written in stone, and I prefer not to think about it. But it made me curious, so I read up on it. And in a New York Times article I read, one of the major things cited was how difficult 15 months is. How upsetting it is for the families back home, for those who have to postpone weddings, or miss milestones.
And to be honest? My sympathy wasn't there. Do not get me wrong please. It is awful what is happening to these men, and to their families. To be deployed at all is a great difficulty and a massive strain to all those involved. As well, my great regard goes out as it always has to those who serve.
But what got me was the 15 months. Granted, 15 months actually spent boots on the ground must be terrible. But here is this article citing how horrid it will be for these families to postpone events and to miss their soldiers for 15 months.
Let me tell you something about my husband and the men he serves with. When all is said and done, they will have been away from their homes, from their families, from their lives, for 18 months. Not 15. 18. My wedding was postponed, not for an extra 3 months, but for a full year and a half because there was no way to have it before he left. There are men in the unit who left pregnant wives behind and will miss first birthdays. There are men who left infants and will miss first steps. Women whose engagements will last years, not months. Mothers who will long for their sons for 18 months. And more to the point, I'm sorry that these active duty soldiers will be there for the 15, but these are National Gaurdsmen. Men who volunteer their time to serve their country, but who have other lives. This is not their primary job, unlike those being extended. There are employers holding their slots, employers put out for a year and a half while these men honor their commitment to their country.
So yes. An extension is terrible. And while I respect the Times finally covering the sacrifice being asked of those in uniform, I am aggravated that so little attention is paid not only to the sacrifice of the citizen soldiers, but to the LENGTH of the sacrifice they are being asked to make. The length of the sacrifice their families are being asked to make.
Which brings me to the other thing that sparked this. I got a text message the other day from an old friend. In it he mentioned that his wife and he would love to have my husband and I up for dinner.
My husband is still in Iraq.
Oh really? I thought he'd be home by now.
Again highlighting how truly long this really is. He's not home by now. He's not even close. There are almost 5 months remaining in this deployment. How quickly people forget the sheer amount that he, his brothers in arms, and we, the families are giving up. So often people ask when he's coming home. I say hopefully September. And they reply with "Oh! That's not so long!". It is not until I let them know that he has been gone since last May, almost a year, that they realize the enormity of it all.
So while the Times takes pity on those suffering an extra three months (and suffer they will), please, if you read this, thank those who are in month 12 out of 18. We don't have three left. We have six.
No he's not home yet. Not even close. And for me, that time cannot tick by fast enough.

Wordplay

2007-05-11T23:49:00.001-05:00

When I am unsure of things I go back to what I know. Words never let me down. They are endless opportunity. So here's more from the vast wonder and chance of....magnetic poetry.
make do with me
an empty angel
perform a miracle
create a masterpiece

I'm waiting.

paradise is
somewhere between
promises broken
and lies
realized

drunk harmony mounts
experiments with empty passion.

Fear is when you wake up screaming
but no sound comes out.

Erised

2007-05-11T23:47:00.001-05:00

I have always been firmly grounded in my own mediocrity. And I guess it's true. I'm afraid of change. Afraid of loss. I'm afraid to lose my own mediocrity. I cannot give up average. I've spent so much time perfecting my own content, and it's all based on kinda, sorta, okay. I'm okay looking, kinda smart, sorta funny. I'm an okay friend, pretty good teacher, kinda good person. I'm suddenly facing the reflection of myself in mirrors besides my own and it's throwing my whole mastery of mediocrity off. In these reflections I'm worth remembering after four years. I'm sexy, and talented, and I'm the one that got away. I'm a heartbreaker.
A heartbreaker. I've had my heart broken more times that I can count. But whenever I took those online quizzes about whether or not I'd ever caused it, I checked off no. Because as far as I knew, not only had I never broken a heart, I'd never even been a lover worth remembering, let alone regretting the loss of. I've never even had that many dates or flings or hookups to recollect. I've always been the sideline girl, one of the guys, that friend. Mediocrity. Comfortable, boring, jeans and sneakers mediocrity. Suddenly I'm told, I've been remembered for four years. That I am somebody's what if. That I'm the one that got away, the one they waited for, the one they always hoped would come back. I'm faced with the realization that I meant something far more than average to somebody.
And it scares the life out of me. In my own simple mirror I am content and I disappoint no one, because if you see average, average isn't a let down. If you see anything more than average, anything worth remembering, then average is a let down. If you see something more, mediocrity is a disappointment. I've long since mourned and moved on from those that got away from me. I've settled down amazed that anybody chose to settle down with, and settle for me.
Someone is pulling up my roots in the middle of the road, and I'm really not sure I'm ready for it. I'm not ready for anything other than average. But I guess I can't only look in my own mirror forever. And too be honest...it's shattered now, and I don't know how to pick up the pieces.

Once More Into The Breach

2007-05-11T23:46:00.000-05:00

Here it comes again. I'm steeling myself against it, pretending I'll be fine, booking my weekends for the next month in order to pretend everything is normal. The next round of goodbyes is fast approaching and I'm just not ready for it. Not again. Always again.
Last Monday it was my sister. Once more at the airport, St. Pat's never lasts long enough. We have this shared dream she'll move here one day, despite the fact that we both know it won't happen. She is one of my rocks. It would be great if she didn't have to be from 3000 miles away, and vice versa. But once again, a hug across the front seats of my truck, and away she went.
This Monday it will be another leave come to a close. Another riotous 2 weeks ending with the stark knowledge that it's till September. Always not enough time, always too long till it's over. It was too short in November, and too long till September. Now it's too short in March and too long till September. 5 months can't go by fast enough.
And now May. Looks like in May I get to say goodbye again. This time to the other of the two most important men in my life. Once again I'm fiercely proud. Once again I support my brother no matter what he does, and I think he has more guts than anyone I know. Once again I'll write and call and worry and wait. Once more to say goodbyes I'm not ready for, to wait too long, knowing full well that even when he's home...another goodbye will always be on the horizon.
And I chose it, yes I know I did. I chose my friends, I chose to let them get so close, I chose to let them matter as much as they do. I more than willingly open my heart to the people who deserve it, and not one of those listed above is anything less than amazing and deserving.
Which is probably why, no matter how steeled my resolve is, it will never be enough to hold back the inevitable flood. It will never be enough to dull that knowledge that it's not till September, or next June, or whenever else that they will be back in your regular Friday night rotation.
So I'll sit on Monday, leaking tears I don't want to admit I'm crying, looking through pictures taken before each goodbye, hoping for the day that I know it's hello again. And for good.

Ace in the Hole

2007-05-11T23:45:00.000-05:00

Okay. I try very hard not to be "that guy". I do. I try hard not to play of the "I can do that because I'm blonde", I only let guys buy my boobs drinks on special occasions, (or when my husband sends me to the bar cause he knows they'll pour them stiffer for the low cut shirt), and I try not to pull any of the other (my friend is a cop, my dad was a cop, I'm a teacher) cards I have in my back pocket unless absolutely necessary. I like people to view me on my own merits, and I try very hard not to be "that guy". We all know who he/she is.
But there are some days, like today, when I really do feel like pulling the biggest ace out of my sleeve. Days like today when I want to scream, "My husband is in FUCKING IRAQ, you problems aren't SHIT compared to that!"
Days when I want to tell all the stupid little people in, and formerly in, my life that their problems are pathetic and petty and small compared to mine.
Okay, so maybe it's because I got caught up in watching the first 20 minutes of "To Iraq and Back: The Bob Woodruff Story". That was a bad idea. Perhaps it's because watching those damn 20 minutes left me literally crumpled in a ball on my bedroom floor gasping through sobs as I realized exactly what happens to people over there and how completely shattered my life would be if something happened to him. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because for once, I feel like I have a right to pull that card.
I have been humble. I have said I'm not brave, I'm not strong, I'm just very proud of him and I miss him very much. I have said it's worse for him than for me, and meant it.
But dammit, my husband being in a combat zone is more important than the fact that your stupid wedding e-vite didn't go to one of your new inlaws (who e-vites their wedding anyway?!) or that your favorite shirt is now shrunk because somebody had the dryer on the wrong setting, or that you hate your current job, or that somebody you had dated for a couple months dumped you.
I love my friends I do. And I will always be there for them. But there are so many sattelite people in my life whom I would really like to slap. Who I would really like to tell the truth to. My husband might not come home and your problems aren't anything compared to that. Suck it up and deal.
I don't want to be "that guy". But today, a bit, I do. Because there are people in this world who need a goddamned wake-up call and maybe I'm just about ready to do it.

Always Looking Out

2007-02-25T00:24:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine and I began a conversation tonight when he sent me the link to his new blog. Our blogs (not this one for me, I have another, more in depth one elsewhere, ask if you're interested) sprung from a similar instinct and we were discussing said instinct. He has an entry in his about lyricism and poetry and somehow we got on the subject of the genius of Greg from Bad Religion, and the concept of universal lyrics.

I can't count how many times music has inspired me to write in so many different ways. It has inspired passion, thoughtful introspection and so much else. But more recently, music has been one of the few things getting me through the day. It has been there to open the floodgates when I really needed to just cry about all this, and it has been there to help me work up the strength to stop the tears. It has been there to get me through the long days and the lonely nights. I have discovered "theme" songs for every different moods, and several "anthems" for those left behind in deployment.

My friend understands this and pointed out a new song, one he described as something that would "probably make you cry, but it's a good song for you right now, an anthem". He was right. It was okay, because I knew about 4 hours ago that I was going to cry tonight. But it was just what I needed to let it out and try to let it go. Try to let go of how much I do miss kisses and so much else. Try to let go of the anger of another night crawling into bed alone, the sadness of cold feet and the most powerful and painful empty feeling inside. Try to let go so that I can sleep another night and get up another day, and do it all over again until it's over.

And when it's over, I'll probably have a new outlook on music, and again find new and different ways to allow myself to be inspired. And until then it's a good thing for me I have friends who are always looking out for me, and lyrics that match my every damned deployment mood.

RR

2007-02-14T21:29:00.000-05:00

Life since Redlands. I racked my brain for something wise, something pithy, something terribly clever to say to describe the last four years. Nothing. Nothing but what has become so very clear just in this past year. That life since Redlands, and life in general, is simply not what I expected. And as I’ve grown to accept, life will never be what I expected.
We all came out of college with brilliant plans, high hopes, and bright expectations. We had coveted degrees that many of us soon found had nothing to do with what we wanted in life. We had five year plans that were soon scrapped and left on the side of the road of life that was fraught with far more twists, turns, and here in Boston, potholes than we planned for.
If you had told me four years ago that I would be a moderate democrat Army wife, I would probably have slapped you for being so foolish. Clearly I was a staunch liberal bound for protests in San Francisco and a life of bringing change to a sadly warped system.
If you had told me four years ago that I would run a triathlon for a dear friend of my own age with cancer I would have laughed in your face. Clearly I couldn’t run more than a mile, and people I know don’t get cancer.
If you had told me four years ago that I would end up back in my hometown, working at my old elementary school, often with my former teachers I would have cried at the mere suggestion of such a terrible fate.
Because you see I had my plans. I was going to broaden the minds of high school students. I was going to teach them to love writing with the same passion as my college professors had. I was going to plan brilliant lessons around Shakespeare and lead thought-provoking discussions, outside naturally, as I would be living in the Bay Area. I was never going back to Boston, I would finally get rid of the vestigials of my accent, and I would have a life to rival Carrie Bradshaw’s.
I didn’t know then that Boston wasn’t just the “r” I forgot to pronounce at the end of my words, but that it was something in my blood, something I couldn’t live without forever. I didn’t know then that I would never work in a classroom teaching writing to high schoolers, but that I would spend two years of my life desperately trying to help students with Autism learn the value of language in any form. And that it would be one of the most rewarding, gut-wrenching, and beautiful times of my life. I didn’t know I would fall in love with a man because he was loyal, dutiful, respectful, selfless, honorable, and courageous. I also didn’t know that those were the exact Army values that would take him away from me for a year and a half. I never would have believed I could live without my love, teach without words, marry without a wedding, run, bike and swim all in 2 hours for a friend with no hair, say “cah” again, or vote for John McCain.
But I had no idea four years ago, that nothing would ever be what I expected. And I’m so glad it’s not.

Too Close

2007-01-20T23:31:00.000-05:00

I think the biggest problem in America is apathy. It's easy to ignore any and all problems that do not directly affect us, and we do. Until it's in your backyard, nobody cares, or does anything about anything. Why be proactive when it's so much easier to react only to the things that are in our way?

I'm as guilty as anybody. I was apathetic about war until my husband went to one. I was hardly conscious of the true implication of deployment on thousands of families until I was one of the family members being left behind. It's the same with many other things. Sure, I care about the environment - I even own a vehicle that COULD run on ethanol. If ethanol was available in Massachusetts. Which it isn't. So um, I just pollute like the rest of them.

And thusly it was the same with the violence that inspired my profile song. Youth of the Nation, a song about youth issues including school violence. I'm sorry, why should I care really?

School violence happened in Columbine, way out past the Mississippi, and thusly, out of my circle of importance. Don't get me wrong, I cared, but it wasn't my problem, they weren't my students, it wasn't one of my kind of kids.

Until yesterday. When it was exactly one of my kind of kids. School violence WAS something I could ignore. It WAS something that happened to gang members in Los Angeles, and gay students out west, and outcasts in Colorado. It WAS something that was somebody else's problem, and somebody else's students. Only today...it's in my backyard. It's exactly who I work with and it's exactly what I do. And now I can't shut off my TV and make it go away. And now I'm spurned to recognize my own apathy, my own reactivity.

What could have been done? What wasn't done? And thusly in my own professional life, what am I doing? What might I be missing? What else could I do? Where did it all go wrong. How did it go this wrong? One 15 year old's life cut short in a school bathroom, another student's life to be spent never understanding what he did. Or why he did it. He didn't mean to kill him. He didn't want to kill him. He said so as he confessed to a crime committed with little or no idea of what truly would happen.

Who wasn't paying attention? Where could this have been caught before now? Why did this happen?

And what can I do to curb my own apathy so that this never happens so close to home again?

Hope

2007-01-16T23:41:00.000-05:00

I find what tears at me most at this point in my life is the feeling of hopelessness. As I watch my students grow, and learn, and question the world around them, I wonder. What world is it that we are handing them? A world of melting ice caps, and smog, of suicide bombings and school shootings. A world where we all vote for the lesser evil candidate for the men who we entrust our country to, and where we fear a third party, as a vote for them is a vote for the other guy.

I don't want to vote for someone because they are "less bad" than the other. I'm frightened of a world in which as a twentysomething I am losing what shreds of hope I have left. If mine is waning, what will I have to give to the students in whom I am supposed to instill a belief in right, and in justice, and of faith?

Why am I writing all this you ask? Call me cheesy, but it's inspired by a movie. I saw "Bobby" tonight. And this is no commentary on the film, nor an advocation in any way. It is merely a blog because the film made me long for a time when American's had hope. When change was in the air, and people believed that something good could happen. That there was a way out.

The final scenes of the movie are layered over a speech of Robert F. Kennedy's that I am sure was selected by the director not only for it's poignancy, but for it's relevance to the world we live in today. I only dream of being the kind of writer he was. And so rather than blather further, I leave you with a piece of writing by the president who never was. The president who should have been. I leave you with a piece of writing that the president who is, should read. That we all should read. And take to heart.

And maybe find a little bit of hope in our mad mad mad world.

This is a time of shame and sorrow. It is not a day for politics. I have saved this one opportunity, my only event of today, to speak briefly to you about the mindless menace of violence in America which again stains our land and every one of our lives.

It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one - no matter where he lives or what he does - can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on and on in this country of ours.

Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by an assassin's bullet.

No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of reason.

Whenever any American's life is taken by another American unnecessarily - whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of the law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of the life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded.

"Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, "there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; and those who take such appeal are sure to lose their cause and pay the costs."

Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far-off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire whatever weapons and ammunition they desire.

Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them.

Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul.

For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is the slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter.

This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all.

I have not come here to propose a set of specific remedies nor is there a single set. For a broad and adequate outline we know what must be done. When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies, to be met not with cooperation but with conquest; to be subjugated and mastered.

We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.

Yet we know what we must do. It is to achieve true justice among our fellow citizens. The question is not what programs we should seek to enact. The question is whether we can find in our own midst and in our own hearts that leadership of humane purpose that will recognize the terrible truths of our existence.

We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of others. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge.

Our lives on this planet are too short and the work to be done too great to let this spirit flourish any longer in our land. Of course we cannot vanquish it with a program, nor with a resolution.

But we can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.

Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again.

2006-12-18T21:59:00.000-05:00

I have written before about the way life can come full circle in so many ways. And so often you realize it when the playlist on MikeFM finally comes full circle, or perhaps when you decide it's time for a new MySpace song.

In HS I was an outcast. No bones about it, no regrets. I was a loser, and I embrace my loserdom. I wasn't friendless, no, I just wasn't popular. What's popularity anyway, but the illusion that someone has more friends than you. Which is never really true anyway.

But that's not my point. The point is, when the song "Bitch" came out, it fit. I was an amalgam of personality traits, and I hadn't really figured myself out.

Only now I have figured myself out in so many ways. And the song still fits.

I do hate the world today. I think it's a disaster with a very scary man running things. And yet I'm still a goddess on my knees praying that something will change, and doing everything I can to make things better for them while they're there.

I am a bitch. And a fearsome one with a gun in my hand. And yet I'm still a mother a few times a week, fixing zippers and putting on bandaids, and feeling heads for supposed fevers.

I'm a lover, sometimes too much for my own good, and yet I'm still sometimes a child, just desperately wanting someone to take care of me.

You may be good to me, and I will know it. But I won't be able to change. Because I like being a little bit of everything all rolled into one.

So you can take me as I am. Cause it's not going to change. Only it is. Every single day. And I'm not ashamed.

(But, for the record...I am NOT a tease!)

Holding back tears

2006-11-11T00:02:00.000-05:00

Today elementary schools across the country celebrated veterans day. Some celebrated with a day off, others with programs celebrating their local veterans. My school was one of the latter.

Now I knew this was coming. There were school-wide e-mails to all the staff about wearing red white and blue to support the kids in the performance, and to remind students about veterans day. I knew it was coming.

But I was so woefully underprepared. No armor of navy blue and white striped cotton sweaters could save me. No blue star pin, or dog tags hidden under my shirt (but worn every day since this started) could have helped me.

Because the second an entire elementary school stood at attention for the national anthem, boy scouts proudly saluting just like the veterans being honored; the second the first strains of "This Is My Country" played; the first small speech by an even smaller child about the importance of the day happened, I couldn't hide behind my armor anymore. I was brutally exposed as the one tilting her head back so the kids wouldn't see her cry.

Because their innocence is so incredible. Their honest renditions of songs that as of yet have little meaning, their faithful repitition of their memorized lines about freedom and war are so beautiful. They are so honest in their belief that these older gentlemen are special. That they must have done something amazing because here we are singing them songs, and here we are free, because they went to war. I know I thought that when I was in their shoes. But it's easy to honor and forget when you have no knowledge of what veteran means.

When you have no knowledge of the sacrifice made. Their fresh faces don't bear the scars of children who don't know where daddy is. Their bright eyes don't shine with the tears that mirror mommy's late-night crying. Their hands over their hearts cover hearts open and innocent, not yet hardened by a year apart.

And he was a second grader once too. How could he have known what it would be like to put your career, your life, and your love on hold to do the right thing. How could he know how it would feel to wear 37 pounds of body armor in 110 degrees. How could he know that a year apart from his family, his wife, his friends, and the comfort of a real irish breakfast was waiting, simply for his patriotism.

So there I sat, listening to these amazing tiny voices sing about freedom and service and sacrifice. And I missed him. So much. And I was so fiercely proud and sad and lonely, and just barely strong enough to remember that my part of service is holding my chin up, my head high, and doing the best I can to represent a man I may never live up to.

Their innocent voices put it best.

"Mrs. Cowing...do you miss your husband extra on days like today?"
"Of course not. She loves him and he's a veteran. She misses him extra every day."

Yes I do. But I am proud. Because "this is my country" because of men like him.

So if you know a veteran, hug them. If you see a veteran, thank them. And remember:

If you can read, thank a teacher.
If you're reading in English, thank a soldier.

Hapsburg

2006-11-04T22:36:00.000-05:00

As I watched the Massachusetts gubernatorial debate this week, beyond being sickened and saddened by the infantile behavior of all the candidates, I was reminded of one of my favorite historical references. The current political arena, I have decided, reminds me quite strongly of the Hapsburg Chin.

What is the Hapsburg Chin, you ask?

The Hapsburg family was one of the ruling families of Spain during the Renaissance period. Similar to many other royal families of the time, and since, the Hapsburgs were prone to interfamily marriage. Lest outsiders wrest political control from the family, it was much preferred then, to marry within the family. This little political policy however, had dire consequences. Somewhere along the Hapsburg line, someone with an extended jaw married someone with a protruding lip. The resulting offspring intermarried to the point where jaws became so elongated and lips so protruding that it resulted in debilitating handicap. (The intermarrying also resulted in many cases, in insanity.)

How does this relate to the current political arena?

Big business. Big business is the Hapsburg family of modern capitalistic society. We don't have a two party system anymore, please don't let yourself be fooled. You need only to watch the pitiful debates I witnessed this week to recognize that. Besides a few squabling details, (exactly whose fault the big dig is, exactly how many cops should really be on the street despite the fact that neither candidate will end up paying more cops salaries) they are all saying the same thing. Why? Because they are all paid off by the same people. Perhaps it's a different kind of union, but it's a union. Perhaps it's a different business with an interest in expansion in Massachusetts, but nonetheless it's a big business with an interest in expansion in Massachusetts. All four of our candidates (though two don't have a snowball's chance in hell) are in someone else's back pocket and it certainly isn't mine.

Look to the bigger picture even! The Hapsburgs of today carry labels like Bristol-Meyer, or Halliburton, or Exxon, or perhaps Viagra. It's as though our candidates are all Nascar vehicles, plastered with ads for companies whose stock I will never be able to afford. There are no Democrats and Republicans, only minor squables over when exactly (and it's not soon for either of them) we will leave Iraq, or exactly how hard we should work to keep Canadian drugs out of the country.

Our American Hapsburg Chin is run by the new generation of Ken Lays, our politicians are paid for by Xanax. And the result is a pathetic lack of options, a gross abuse of what used to be an honest two party system, and in some cases what appears to be growing insanity. (I'm sorry, but can you explain to me how waterboarding could ever be a "no-brainer"?) Our candidates are all the result of political inbreeding, debilitated by their dependency on their predecessors and the businesses paying the checks for their mudslinging ad campaigns.

I'm afraid of what the presidential race in 2008 will bring, and I'm saddened that I don't even want to vote for a governor.

I guess I'll pick whomever has the smallest chin.

2006-10-27T19:52:00.000-05:00

I sneeze myself awake, and instinctively roll over. But there's nothing there. Just an empty half of bed. I roll back over and stare at the cieling.

Right now is when he'd pat my head and get up to make me tea. Right now is when I'd roll over to cuddle up on his warm half of the bed. Right now is when he'd come back and pick me up to cuddle till my tea was done.

But instead it's just me. Just me wishing he was here to make it all better. Wishing he was here to do all the little things I don't think I even realized he did, until he didn't anymore. Wishing he was just here.

I did life on my own. I did, really. And I was quite good at it. AM quite good at it I suppose. And it actually took me a darn long time to let someone truly in. Took me a damn long time to trust someone enough to count on them.

That's the problem with counting on someone who is technically "property" of someone else. You can't really ever count on them.

That's not true. How it really matters you can still count on them. I can count on him to love me with all of his heart. I can count on him to be faithful, and honest. I can count on him to care, no matter how often he gets to tell me that he does.

But as I stare at my ceiling with a stuffed nose and sore throat that is sadly lacking tea, I realize the other things I counted on that I miss so very much. I counted on someone to open the pickle jar. I counted on someone to kill spiders. I counted on someone to turn the heat on in the morning because he got up first. I counted on someone to have, and more importantly, to hold.

So though I may still be good at it, that doesn't mean I don't have to wish someone was warming the other half of the bed when I'm cold...

Strong

2006-10-15T00:29:00.000-05:00

Or in this case, Army Strong. Soon there will no longer be an Army Of One, but rather Army Strong. I was dubious at best when I first recieved an e-mail announcing this change.
I actually teased my brother a bit. I called him to let him know that he wasn't an Army of One anymore. He thought I was funny. Or maybe he was just laughing at me, that tends to happen too.
And then it dropped off my radar. At the moment, my least concern with the United States military is what their new motto for the Army is. Mostly I'm concerned with how well the internet connection works so I hear consistent word from overseas.
But it's back on my radar now. Curious this evening, I looked around my Army e-mail website looking to see what the deal with "Army Strong" is. And in no way could I have prepared myself.
A brand spankin' new video advertisement explaining what exactly Army Strong means. What it stands for. Army Strong you see, is a little bit more than just strong. And that ad knocked me for one, I'll tell you that much.

Because it is a different kind of strong. It takes a different kind of person to be one of the images in that ad. It takes exactly what the ad says. Physical strength. Emotional strength. Strength of character. And strength of conviction. In this day and age when it is so very easy to sit back and let our entire nation be someone else's problem, there are still people out there who believe it should be everybody's problem. And that they are willing to do their part.
I don't know that I could ever be the kind of Army Strong advertised. Obviously I never signed up, or this blog would be a wholly different entity. I respect those who wear the uniform more than any other kind of person I know. I don't know that I could ever live up to that.
But in its own way, the Army has made me stronger. If you had asked me 2 years ago if I could stay with a man who was going to leave me for a little under 2 years, I don't know what I would have said. If you had asked me 5 years ago if I'd ever be with someone in the service, I don't know what I would have said. And yet here I am. I've made it almost 6 months without him. 2 of those months without my brother as well. I don't always like it. I still have bad days, and lonely days and crying jags that I wish didn't happen. And yet somehow I have found this kind of faith, this belief that this is the right thing to do. That as much as this is the last thing I wanted to happen to us, that there is something bigger than just us. And that if I can be just a little bit tougher, that it will be all that much easier for him to be Army Strong.

So I guess my skepticism is laid to rest. Because at the end of this he will be stronger than ever. And maybe I'll have a little Army Strong in me as well.

And maybe that's something everybody in this country could use a little of.

What Are You Saying?

2006-09-21T21:08:00.000-05:00

I was driving home from grad school last night in one hell of a mood. The last thing I wanted to do was get sucked into any kind of deep thought. I was looking forward to an evening of steak, cheese, and schlocky reality television. But there it was, right in front of me. Brake lights and a bumper sticker. A "Kerry in 2004" bumper sticker. And it got me thinking. Damn you powder blue volvo.

I thought I could put it out of my head, despite knowing that my train of thought was blog worthy. But here I am, one night hence, still thinking about it, so here I go.

What are you saying? What are you saying with your six inches of brightly colored plastic with super-sticky adhesive? Some bumper stickers say it all in print. "Please keep honking, I'm loading my shotgun." "I like animals. They taste good with ketchup." Or the highly annoying "My child is an honor roll student at fill in the blank school!" They state their purpose and move on in a sea of blinking red. Nothing much to look at, perhaps a giggle or snort, but then you move on with your gridlock; with your day.

Some bumper stickers tell you a little bit about the person driving. Maybe they love their Golden Retriever. Or perhaps they have a house in MV (inside a little white oval, of course). They might indicate through sticker-speech that they are a firefighter, a cop, or a Marine. In my case, my car indicates that I have a family overseas in the 101st B Battery and that I'm an Army wife. It also says I went to the University of Redlands. A bit billboardy you say? Perhaps. I may be guilty of overbroadcasting "I'm an intelligent female driving a truck with a husband overseas, you lazy, non-volunteering, non-military-respecting drivers out there!" But on the other hand, my stickers are plain, non-descript, and even keeled.

Which brings me to my Volvo. And his or her (I will assume her, due to the powder blue color choice) decision to leave on the Kerry sticker long after its ability to sway a single vote. My title- what are you saying? What are you saying with your Kerry sticker? Is this your tongue out at all the other non-Kerry voters? A stinging shot to your democratic friends who forgot to hit the polls that day? Is it a statement that you don't support the current administration - an "I didn't vote for them" perhaps? The sticker will not change things. Kerry is the past. We don't even know if the democrats have a future. So what are you saying with that sticker? I'm curious. Dying to know in fact.

Or maybe it's like my old parking permits from when I lived on the other side of the country...and it just won't come off.

And isn't that a story in and of itself?

Suburbia

2006-09-14T21:25:00.000-05:00

I used to have a group of friends. Why it's "used to" is unimportant...but then again, maybe you'll know by the end. This group of friends, well, they were city dwellers. Women who loved the city, or proclaimed to anyway. Who extolled the virtues of having a "sex and the city" lifestyle; of easy access to places with the T, to bars and pubs and clubs; of never having to drive home. They glorified their urban lifestyle, worshipped it even. They held it so dear. But every few months, for one of them a lease would come up. And suddenly it was nothing but complaints. The city is too expensive, you pay too much for too little. I concur, 1300 a month for a wimpy tiny studio is ridiculous. They whined over having to pay for parking spaces, or permits for the cars they still owned despite the aforementioned virtue of "never having to drive". They bitched over how crowded, hot, dirty, inconvenient, etc. the city was. And mostly they complained about their beloved T. In fact many of them complained about the T even when leases weren't up. Actually, it was mostly a constant. It's slow, it's too full of stupid students, it's never on time, there aren't enough trains, it costs too much. For something that they would tell outsiders was so wonderful, it never seemed so great to me. So the bitching would begin when leases needed to be signed, and they would all start looking for something cheaper, better, closer, easier, less crowded, etc.
And then it would come. The jarring realization that if you want to live more cheaply, you have to GASP leave the city. Yes, my friends you have to go outside the pristine walls of the Boston city line, maybe even past Cambridge, and into (insert ominous music) the suburbs.
Well, you would have thought you were asking them to commit hari kari. The suburb bashing would begin. It's too far away, I'd have to drive everywhere, there's nothing to do. It's all married couples and people with babies, it's too slow, there's nothing to do. Nobody lives there, you can't walk to places, there's nothing to do.
And every time I would laugh. Because suddenly they'd begin bragging about the T (which they hated) and the walking (which they hated) and the population (which they, you guessed it, hated). They hated everything about it, but despite hating it, it was still apparently better than the suburbs.
Guess what. I like the suburbs. I like paying less, and living more cheaply, more simply, and frankly, with a better bed time. It's not that far away, I can get into the city in under 20 minutes. You don't have to drive everywhere, in fact the busses do come out here, and there are T stops to be found in most outlying areas. And actually, the commuter rail runs for the most part on time! There's plenty to do, there are parks and bike trails, and little town centers, and farmer's markets. In the evenings there are pubs and restaurants and a club or two. There are young people all over the place who were smart enough to move to a more affordable area, few of them have babies, and we walk everywhere. I loved my huge first floor apartment, with it's giant rooms, clawfoot bathtub and backyard all for under 1000 a month! Now while my soldier is away, I love that I can walk to work, walk to the farmer's market, and most of all save my hard earned cash. And I can still go into the city when I want to. But the fact of the matter is that I don't want to that often.
Because it is too crowded, and too expensive. Because there isn't anyplace to park, and the T is expensive, slow, crowded, unpredictable and frustrating. Because I don't always like the people, you can't really walk everywhere, there are too many stupid young people, and it's all just one big hassle.

Wait, have I heard that before?

The truth is, I heart suburbia, and I'm not afraid to admit it.

Give it Away

2006-08-16T20:45:00.000-05:00

There's a great country song out there right now (my my, do we notice a theme in my choice of music?) called "Give It Away". It's all about a break up and how one party wants the other one to just give everything away. It doesn't mean anything anymore. I heard that song today followed by another one, which inspired me to write today, an open ended letter.

To Whom It May Concern:

And by the end of this, I think you'll know who you are. I've decided to give "our" song away. It's been a significant amount of time since it was "our" song in the first place, as we have not in fact been a we, or an us, or had an our in a very long time. We broke up what seems like ages ago. Actually, you dumped me and broke my young and tender heart. But that's okay, cause my fiance kinda kicks your butt now. Sorry.
But I digress. We broke up and yet whenever I'd hear this particular song I'd be swept up in a bizarre time warp to July 4th, 1998. You remember...you sneakily held my hand in the movie theatre where we went to see "Armageddon". And so began what should have stayed a fleeting summer romance. We tried to keep it up after the leaves turned, but you should have stayed a boy of summer. That's all right.
The song fit though. A song about not wanting to go to sleep because you'd miss something. A song that described our sweeping teen ideals of "saving" our summer love and stretching it out into glorious weekend visits that were heartbreaking to have to end. Cause I'd miss you babe. And I don't want to miss a thing. Do you remember?
In fact there were two songs. One about not wanting to miss a thing, and one about how tomorrow I'll be gone.
Well, the truth is, I'm giving them away. Not away really, just to someone else. I'm all grown up now, and as heartbreaking as driving to the train station and saying goodbye was in my senior year of high school, there's someone I'll miss more now than I ever missed you. Oh please don't take offense, I did miss you back then, terribly.

But now he's leaving. And when he comes back in a few weeks for a few bittersweet days, those songs are going to be a perfect fit. And I'm giving them to him. I'm packing away the memories of clandestine hand-holding. I'm really going to try and stay awake, because I'm going to miss him, baby, and I don't want to miss a thing. And I'm going to try and save tonight, and fight the break of dawn. Because on that final tomorrow?

He'll be gone.

And from now on, I want those songs to take me back to however many days I get with him between now and a war. For the next year, when MikeFM cycles back to cheesy Aerosmith and Eagle Eye, I want to see his face, and feel those moments.

So I'm terribly sorry to whom it may concern. But I'm giving them away. Because it's time, and because he's worth it.

Every Fifth Word

2006-07-19T21:05:00.000-05:00

With my last post I was inspired. I thought it might be interesting if I wrote down every fifth word I read in the top news stories today. Here goes.

Killer panic hardest tsunami death more missing residents of running shouts coming unclear Indonesia warning no wave.

Israeli south warplanes including Hezbollah's offensive pressure spare devastation wipe dramatic clash Lebanese people died warnings undeterred fled.

Nearly slain June coincided attacks report Iraq lawlessness assasination torture targeted militants

Nice, right? Not one word of hope, love, honor, peace, kindness. Nothing. Nothing but a repetitive onslaught of death, destruction, terror, horror, and despair.

In case you're wondering, here are some other headlines from today.

"Bush uses his first veto on stem cell bill"
"Gunmen kidnap 20 Sunni workers in Iraq"
"Evidence of past Chicago police torture found"
"Not enough meningitis vaccine to go around"

Oh...but in case you cared, the British tabloids apologized to Britney Spears for reporting she was getting divorced. Doesn't that just make everything okay?

Stop Children, What's That Sound?

2006-07-19T20:51:00.000-05:00

Everybody look what's going down...

During a conversation it was compared to a line in Dumb and Dumber. "We have no heat, we have no money...our pet's HEADS ARE FALLING OFF!" Okay, so if you're from my generation, that quote makes complete sense. If you aren't, it's just one of the many movie quotes to express complete exasperation. So exasperated it's almost reached the point of comedy.
That's how it feels these days. At a dinner the other night a friend informed me that she felt as though she was leaving the city of Boston, "just in time." Just in time to avoid what exactly? She didn't know, she could only say she had an overwhelming feeling that something terrible is brewing in this city.
Why would a twenty-something with nothing but great prospects have such a dire prediction for a city she has loved for almost two years? It's quite simple really. Businesses are fleeing the city, and in fact the state, at an alarming rate due to the high cost of doing business and the lack of low-level employees that can even come close to affording life in this area. The cost of living in and around Boston is skyrocketing, certainly out of the reach of most entry-level and service industry employees. Actually, it's out of reach for most people under the age of thirty. And if it's not out of reach, it's a painful stretch at the expense of quality of life.
If you can afford to live in the city, you certainly cannot afford to drive out of it, as gas has topped out at around $3.09 for the cheapest you can find. If you are lucky enough to fill your tank, you can't go where you want because our tunnel system, the product of years of overspending and underworking, the long awaited and overdue big dig completion, is caving in on itself, and anybody driving through it. And so you will spend hours trying to get someplace, stuck in traffic because there are no tunnels, burning your $50.00 gas tank, in the oppressive, humid, heatwave.
Let's review shall we? You can't get a job because businesses are leaving. You can't afford to live here because you can't get a job. If you manage both of the prior, you can't afford to fill your tank, or go anywhere, and if you can, you will do it in dangerously hot weather.
I wonder why she thinks something bad must be brewing?
And that's just here in our fair city. If you take a look outside, it's a scary scary place. The Middle East is caving in on itself in a rash of terrorist violence and opposing nation response. The Pacific Islands are getting pounded mercilessly by earthquakes and deadly tsunamis. The West Coast is ablaze, and the first of the tropical storms is due to hit Virginia Beach at any second.
It brings me to beg the question. What IS that sound? What IS going on? I can't remember a time before in my entire life where I truly felt the world had gone mad. Not only that man was wild with violence, crime, and imperialistic oppression, but that Mother Nature had lost it as well.
It's frightening, and in an odd way exhilirating. I don't think my friend will avoid whatever is coming next simply by moving to Oregon. Perhaps whatever boil-over is due in Boston, but certainly not what is next for the nation, and the global population that is expanding in an ever-shrinking worldwide community. I don't want to avoid it in fact. I choose to turn my face to the wind, my car to the road, and burn through another tenth of my paycheck in gasoline. What is that sound, and what's next?

I tunes

2006-07-15T22:18:00.000-05:00

You can almost always tell what mood I'm in by what the "top-played" songs are on my ipod.

Show tunes - cheery and a bit optimistic
Old punk - pissed off or really tired and in need of a pick me up
Bluegrass - very mellow
Pop - Happy, chill and shallow

But what you can't usually tell from that list is what is on my mind. Don't get me wrong, if you see me whipping around town to "All I Want" by the Offspring, I'm probably pretty damn upset about something. But you probably won't know what.

But these days, like many of my previous posts, my playlist completely belies what is on my mind, all the time. It's full of songs like "American Soldier", "Courtesy of the Red White and Blue", "Letters From Home", and on the not-so-good days, "Where'd You Go". My playlist is a blatant representation of what I think about all the time. My soldier. All soldiers. What the hell it does mean to me to be an American, and how to weave that in with my old ideologies?

With the new shift in my focus, and ideas on life, liberty, patriotism, and how to be a middle to liberal patriot, I've been seeking the appropriate soundtrack. Whether it be the Army song to pick me up, or "Proud to be An American" to remind me why he is doing this (despite the origin of the song...and if you don't know, ask, it's quite interesting), or any of the others, I've been downloading up a storm and trying to find a song to match each military moodswing. There are days I still hate this. Hate him for joining cause it meant he had to leave. Hate being alone. Hate missing him so damn much and the fact that no matter what people say, it does not get easier, and you never miss him any less. There are days I'm overwhelmingly sad. Sad for myself, sad for him, sad for wives and children without husbands and dads, sad for the dads who have to miss birthdays and anniversaries, first steps and goodnight kisses. There are days I'm angry. Angry at Bush for getting us into this, angry at the people who pressed him into service, angry at myself for being angry in the first place. But with any of those emotions I've been able to find a song.

Now tell me, all you readers. Why are almost every single one of those songs a country song.

All you liberals out there stop and think. There's all this protest music out there. There are a million and one left-wing musicians talking about supporting the troops, or bringing them home. So why is it that the only people celebrating these men and women are the country folk? Why isn't there a rock song about an American Soldier. Why isn't there a pop tune about American pride in the troops? You have so many people splashing their faces and their message across t-shirts and page six, and yet nobody has the time to use their talent to support it other than Toby Keith? Where is the John Michael Montgomery of rock? Where's the Tim McGraw of pop? Where's the hip hop David Ball?

Again, don't get me wrong. I don't support Toby Keith's blind alliance to our "fearless leader". And I'm not voting red anytime soon. But as I try to figure out where I stand in this politic world, I'm reminded of the tendency of liberals to talk a big game, but ignore the call to action. If your talent is singing, sing a song about Private Montoya. If your talent is acting, why the hell aren't you taking roles to show your support? Why is it that a right wing country star can put out almost an entire album celebrating the people he supports and all of left wing music can't come up with one little ditty?

Well...till that day, I'm waiting on a travelin' soldier, wondering where'd you go, I miss you so, and I know that he's solid, steady, and true down to the core. And I'll keep writing him letters from home. Every day.

Everything is Different Now

2006-07-04T22:25:00.000-05:00

Don Henley has a song titled Everything is Different Now. It's all about how your life changes when you find someone you truly love. And I don't think he meant it to be about the particular situation I'm in (much as I'm unsure if Fort Minor's new song is about deployment either) but it works, so I'll keep it on my list of "anthems for deployment".

Because everything is different now on this fourth. Everything means something new, something different.
It's not the home of the brave anymore. It's the home of my brave. My husband. My brother. My soldiers. It's not just a flag, it's not just a song. It's a symbol and an anthem that stand for what they are giving to their country. Those things mean something now. I can't just sit and listen, it touches me. It reminds me that thousands of brave, honorable, incredible men have gone before them. To do a job. Because they believed in their country and what their country means.

These aren't just words anymore. Freedom, Liberty, Patriotism. They all mean something to me. It's not about waving flags, or wearing them. It's about noticing them and believing in what they mean. Believing in the men who wear them into combat, everyday, because they signed a contract believing in a cause. In the long run, it won't be about the administration. In 50 years Rumsfeld won't mean much. But the flag will mean something. The national anthem will mean something. My kids will see soldiers and know that their Daddy was brave, and honorable, and stood up when so few others would to do a job he believed in, no matter where it took him.

I will always be different. I will always notice flags and pause. I will always listen to soldier songs and come back to these days, these moments. I will hear American Soldier and remember today, and this year and think about my solider, my soldiers, and what they mean to me. I will hear Letters From Home and remember writing one, every day. I will see soldiers on the street and have an immediate unmeasurable respect for them, and the families behind them. I will never forget what he is giving, what they are all giving, and what it means to me. I don't have to have any opinion on this conflict beyond the feeling that no matter what the conflict there are men and women who will stand up and be counted, who will stand up behind the values, who will stand up and carry the flag wherever they are ordered to go.

These are men and women who are important every day of the year. They put on a uniform every day and do their jobs. They belong in the spotlight far more often than as token symbols of patriotism on Pops Goes The Fourth. They should be in the spotlight every day so that every person in this country can be reminded of what it means to have people protecting everything you enjoy, every day of your life.

And it won't happen. And there will be thousands of people filled with cliches and rhetoric just like I used to be. But for me, everything is different now. Because I live in the land of the free. And the home of the brave is just a little bit empty. But it's for a damned good cause.

It's time

2006-06-28T22:15:00.000-05:00

It's time to write again. It's been far too long. And the emotions have backed up like a bad conveyor belt (like in "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime"...if you've read it...).

Yes, the ones that I wrote of earlier are still there. The oft-unbearable sadness hits every night just around 9, when I remember that the day is over, and I can't distract myself anymore and I have to face crawling into a bed that didn't used to feel so damned big. The anger is still there, and the bitterness, though I am fighting to keep it under control and to keep my nasty little comments to myself. How can you not be angry when you feel like something so important has been yanked unceremoniously out from under you? Or next to you as the case may be?

But now mixed in with those two very present, and very big emotions is something else. Something else that throws the whole balance off. Something that makes all the emotions together so hard to deal with and yet makes the situation just a tiny bit easier.

Yes, I'm constantly dealing with a swirling maelstrom of anger and hurt and sadness. But mixed in, with ever-increasing frequency is a feeling of overwhelming and extremely powerful pride.

No. I am not converting to red-state status. Nor have I changed my mind about the severe lack of grammar skills of the current administration. But I am proud. I am proud of my husband. I am proud of my brother. I am proud that they believe in something bigger than themselves. I am proud that they are willing to sacrifice their own comfort, and their plans, and their ideas for something that is more important. I am proud that they signed up for a job, and even when that job means a situation that is less than palatable, they do it, and they do it to the best of their ability.

I whine all the time about what this means to me. What I have had to give up. And I don't devalue that, I did give up a lot, and it does suck (most days) to be me right now. But he gave up more. He gave up his paramedic school, and his job that he liked, where he had just gotten a raise. He gave up his comfortable apartment, and comfortable clothes, and his comfortable life. He gave up his significant other too. He sleeps alone now too. And the life he has to take on will be significantly harsher than the one he left. A harsh climate, a harsh cultural view of him and his nation. A harsh workload, and gear-load, for chrissakes that armor weighs almost 30 pounds! It all brings new meaning to the idea that all give some, but some give all.

That doesn't have to mean your life as in life and death. But he gave up the life he knows for the next year to do a job he signed up for because he believed in it. Because he believed the country has worth and value, and that it deserves to have honorable men and women who serve it. And so did everyone who went with him. Some of them for the second and third time.

Which makes this emotional rollercoaster so much more complicated. Because how can you be angry and sad with something you are so incredibly proud of? How can you fault something you're starting to believe in yourself?

So yeah. I'm still pissed as hell. And I still cry myself to sleep most nights, clinging to a bear that says "I love you Pumpkin". But I don't cry as long as I did in the beginning. And it's getting easier every day to say "He's going to Iraq." Because I may not believe in the reasons, the timing, or the planning. I may not even believe in the war as a whole. But I believe in him, and what he's doing, and how much he is willing to give for a promise he made to a country he thinks still matters. Which is more than can be said for most people. So above all the rest, it's time to say I'm proud.

(Note: I am not, will not be, nor have I ever been a Republican, and the items included herein should not be misinterpreted as such. I'm just not such a damned hippie liberal anymore :)

Should Have Known

2006-04-30T10:54:00.000-05:00

I should have known. I should have known when we met at an asylum. I should have known then that nothing was going to be "like it's supposed to be". I should have known that the life I was about to choose would never be the same, and would never be how I planned it and would never be what I expected.

I'll admit it. I'm a five-year plan kind of girl. I want to know what's coming, and I want to know what I'm doing to make sure what's coming is what I want. I want to know what I'm doing to make things better in the next few years, and I want to have contingency plans.

I should have known that the fork in the road I was turning down would throw my five-year plans to the wind.

But it was just too good to pass up. He was too good to pass up. He was funny, and smart. He was cute too. And he was the kind of guy who still believed in honor and loyalty and god and country. Who does that anymore? Really? I mean, besides my brother, who I was convinced was stuck in 1944, and a sprinkling of acquaintances, who does that anymore? Who really believes in serving people and that there's still some kind of greater good? Who believes that saving lives is honorable and not some kind of medicare scam? Who believes in holding doors, and dancing to country in the living room, and putting out fires and saving lives, and being a goddamned knight on a white horse? He did. Although at the time it was a red crown vic, not a white horse. Too good to pass up. After a long string of assholes and hard losses, even my brother gave his blessing.

He makes me laugh. He makes me take myself a little less seriously when I need it. He takes me on random trips to Maine to buy lobster for dinner. Our first big date was to the freaking Symphony. And it was his idea. And he enjoyed it. It wasn't just to impress, it was because he wanted to. He gives great hugs, and he can pick me up, and he can get jar lids off, and he's just tall enough to be taller than me in heels without making me feel like a midget when I'm not.

But I should have known. I should have known that nothing good comes without a price. And that price would be my precious five-year plans, my beloved contingencies, and my desperate need for stability.

Because what do guys who believe in honor a country do? They serve it. No matter who is in charge of it.

But we didn't think it would happen to us. No matter how many other monkey wrenches there were, not that.

We made it through a really bad roommate situation and found him a beautiful new apartment. We made it through another bad roommate situation and found a fabulous couple to share our space and often our time with. We made it through ruined surprises (when a friend left me on an e-mail list that told everyone about MY engagement, it wasn't so much a surprise anymore), and bad office management and had an amazing evening and proposal, and decision to spend our life together. We made it through months of beauraucratic bullshit with the state so that I could get my teaching license, and so that he could get his EMT back. We made it through applications and got into grad and paramedic school. We survived on one car, sometimes one paycheck (the National Guard sometimes forgets to pay on time), one closet, one bed. We each survived each other's often crazy families, and did so together.

We laughed at the unexpected, cried through the frustrating, but in the end, it always seemed to come out right. We managed to keep our plans, and maintain some stability. We managed to do it together.

But I should have known this was coming. I kept convincing myself it wouldn't. I convinced myself when I said yes. I convinced myself that sure, he was in the military, but it was the Guard. How many from the Guard could they possibly be taking? And besides, he's in the rear detachment, he's safe. Then I convinced myself that the Cape deployment would help...he just served, they can't take him away. But then it started. Orders to SRP. Not getting cut after the SRP. And the waiting. Waiting and hoping the phone wouldn't ring. Hoping that if it did, it would be to say no.

But the phone rang. And it wasn't to say no. And now my precious plans, and absolutely necessary stability is right out the window. My wedding is cancelled, my Paul is leaving me, and I should have known. I should have known that fairytales are bullshit. I should have known not to buy a wedding dress. I should have known that the fact that everything was going right was a bad sign, not a good one.

And now I'm stuck. With a signed piece of paper which is not how I wanted it to be. With a husband who's leaving me for over a year. To go to a war we don't believe in. With people he doesn't even know. I can't stand the idea of staying in our beautiful apartment without him. I can't stand it that I finally find what everyone is looking for, and the exact reason it's perfect is the exact reason it's leaving.

I should have known.

But even though I should have known, I never wanted to believe. And now it's real, and I should have known.

But that doesn't make it fair.

And it hurts more than I could ever have imagined,

but I should have known.

Just Like That

2006-04-20T09:06:00.000-05:00

Just like that and your whole world can cave in on you. 5 measly seconds and 6 measly words and it's all over.

Everything you'd planned for the last year. Everything you were hoping to plan over the next year. All your plans for vacations and holidays and wednesday nights. All gone.

15 months. Maybe nothing in the grand scheme of things. Maybe nothing if you last 50 years like some marriages do. But as of right now, 15 months is a quarter of our entire relationship together. And 15 months in a war zone is even worse. Why couldn't it be 15 months rebuilding New Orleans? I could handle that. Or 15 months in hurricane alley doing NATIONAL work. Because it IS the National Guard. Or maybe our "fearless leader" who apparently will "decide what is best" has forgotten that. It's a little hard to guard the nation when you're not IN IT. It's a little hard to be there for national crises when you're in someone else's nation.

Someone else's nation that doesn't want you there in the first place. Someone else's nation where it'll be okay to blow him up, because to them he doesn't matter. Someone else's nation thousands of miles away. Might as well be a world away.

No more phone calls from work. No more sweet dreams at night. No more kisses goodbye in the morning. No one to laugh with, no one to cry on.

And yes, I know other people are in my life, and they care, and I'm not saying any of this to make them feel unappreciated. But the fact of the matter is, I'm not planning on marrying anybody else in my life, and now the one person I was supposed to marry isn't going to be in the country on our wedding date. Or my birthday. Or our anniversary. No sox game on the year anniversary of our engagement. Nobody to dress up with for halloween. Nobody to kiss under mistletoe, or on New Year's.

And I'm heartbroken. And it's not fair. And I don't care that I sound like a victim, cause right about now that's how I feel. I have to put my life on hold because I'm a victim of a choice he made during the Clinton era. I'm a victim of a stupid president and an even dumber war. And I'm angry. And I'm hurt. And I really wish I could stop crying, even just long enough to appreciate the last 3 weeks I have with him.

Which will never ever be enough time to say everything you think you have a year and a wedding to say.

How do you say you need them to come back. More than anything you ever thought you'd need.

And just like that, he'll be gone. And just like that I'll be back to being on my own. Only now I'll be responsible for two lives, two bank accounts, two sets of bills. I'll be responsible for making sure he comes back to the life he left. The life I'll have to live on my own. For 15 months.

And just like that I'm not sure of anything anymore.

You dropped the bomb on me

2006-03-13T07:37:00.000-05:00

I was picking him up at work. Looking all cute in his uniform.

"We need to talk."

No I'm thinking. It could be anything I'm thinking. Maybe he cheated, we could get through that. Maybe he screwed up his finances I'm thinking, that wouldn't be that bad. It could be anything I'm thinking, anything but what the knot in my stomach already knows it is. It could be something stupid about money or school or his car or another weekend screwed up. It could be anything I'm thinking.

But thinking doesn't change the fact that I know.

I know cause I'm picking him up from the Armory. I know because he's in uniform. I know because he's never looked like this before.

And my heart hits the floor.
"I have to SRP with the 101st."
And my stomach drops out.
"In April, for their June deployment."
And I set my jaw.
"They have holes that they need to fill in..."
And my knuckles go white on the steering wheel and the tears come. And I don't say anything because I can't say anything. Because I've known since he opened his mouth. And I didn't have to know what SRP meant, or which one the 101st is, or when or how. And even though I knew I had those few seconds of clinging to the possibility that it could be something else, anything else, and that anything else would be better.

And I don't say anything. Because I can't say anything. Because there is too much to say and now there will never be enough time to say it in, because four months is not enough time no matter how generous the Army thinks it's being. Because there's not enough time to tell someone how much you love them and how much you need them and how you can't deal with this and how you suck at being a military wife and how you don't want to be patriotic and how it's not your damn duty and how you're angry and crushed and confused and destroyed all at once and how you don't know how to form the words to even get started.

And he kept asking. Say something. Say what? Say that I'm angry? That I don't want you to leave? That it will ruin everything we've spent the past 2 years working for? That I have to give up my fairytale wedding because it won't be the same now because you'll have been gone for a year if we even get to have one at all? That it will ruin the life we've been slowly but surely building together and set us back two years? That I don't know how to be alone since I met you? What exactly did he want me to say?

And I held it together for almost the whole ride home. With my jaw set and my white knuckles and my silent tears streaming down my face.

And then I cried. Out loud. And harder than I ever have before. And now I can't stop. Because the bomb he dropped this time is the kind you don't recover from.

Expectations

2006-02-25T14:29:00.000-05:00

I think I figured it out.

I wrote earlier this week about going out, and the friends I go out with now versus the friends I used to go out with, and how some things have changed and some things haven't. And I said that the two were equal, just different.

But then I went out again last night. Same group, same pub, same band. But I'll say it. I had more fun last night than I had ever had in Davis Sq. And I know some people are going to read this and get all bent. I don't care. The people whom I still love and am friends with will appreciate this blog for what it is. If somebody is hurt by this, if they are really my friend they will take it up with me and I will clarify. So with that caveat, I continue.

I had more fun last night than I can remember having in a very long time. And this morning I realized why. It wasn't the drinks, or the songs the band played, or anything of that nature. It was the expectations, or in this case, lack thereof. The group I was out with last night was simply there to enjoy each other's company, drink some beers, sing some songs and have a damn good time. For once it didn't matter who wore what, what makeup they had, which shoes they were wearing. It didn't matter how they were accessorized, or how posh their drink of choice was or wasn't. And most importantly, for once the focus was not in the slightest on members of the opposite sex. I think that is what has changed for me. And not because I'm getting married, it's not that at all. It has to do with me as a person. Even if I were single right now (which several of my friends out last night are) I wouldn't have gone into the evening focused on meeting somebody, or finding someone hot to buy me a drink, or someone to notice me. I would have gone just like I did- looking to have fun with my friends.

And that is why last night was so much fun. There wasn't that overhanging haze of ulterior motives and expectations. It was just to go. Just to see each other and dance and be silly and sing along and laugh at Molson labels and completely ignore everybody else in the room. (Except for that hilariously drunk girl in the red, and the jerky guy hitting on my Anne.)

It was honest. And straightforward. And there were no other expectations. And I liked it.

Selfish

2006-02-23T17:09:00.000-05:00

When my brother went away last month I was completely a wreck. Granted, it was a tough week with some other disappointments, but the majority of my tears were shed for him being gone.

Because it's extremely difficult to miss someone as much as I miss him and not be able to tell them albeit for letters. I can't call him when "The Final Countdown" or "Boondocks" come on the radio. I can't IM him for no reason when I'm procrastinating from work. I don't see him in the morning on my way to work, and he's not there for family dinners. It's very difficult to have someone who is a very big part of your life suddenly not a part of it. The only time he pops into my life these days is when the mailbox is gloriously carrying a small piece of him. He pops into my mind all the time though.

And I didn't think I could deal with that. I'll admit it. I am a weak person in that regard. I trust very few people, and I depend on those I trust. I need the people I love in my life to be available to me. In that way I can be very selfish. I have no problem admitting that. And I really didn't think I could deal with him not being in my life whenever I needed him!

But it's a month later and I'm doing okay. And there's only one reason that I'm doing okay. Because with each letter he's written to my family and me, he's shown one thing more than anything else. He was born to do this. This is the life he belongs in and he has finally begun to live it.

I watched my brother tread water for the last few years. I knew he wasn't happy. I knew he wanted something more from his life and to be doing something more with his life. I knew he had high aspirations and just couldn't seem to get the ball rolling. One by one options fell by the wayside and the disappointment just mounted to become this palatable thing. And while I loved that he was around and available, I didn't love that he was around and unhappy.

So while I thought this time apart would be impossible to bear, it hasn't been. And it won't be from here on out. Because part of loving him is loving his choices, and loving what makes him happy. And he's so clearly happy. And he's so clearly doing what he was meant to do. And he's good at it.

So I won't think of him any less. But the twinge is fading fast, and rather than a tear springing when those songs come on the radio, or family dinners are a little quieter, now it's a smile twitching at the corners of my mouth. Because I know he's where he belongs. Finally. And that makes it a lot easier to be a little less

Selfish.

Dancin' to the Music

2006-02-20T13:15:00.000-05:00

Okay, I'll admit it. When I first realized I no longer counted as one of the girlz I was hurt. I was angry and upset, and felt pretty betrayed. Mostly because I realized how many things would change and no longer be a part of my life. I would have to keep in touch with the friends I still had in that posse on my own seperately. It would be like so many other friend "divorces" I've been through. The splitting up of the friends, and the times of the week, and the favorite hang out spots, coffeeshops, brunch locales. Mostly I felt sad at the perceived loss of my beloved thursday night 80's nights at the Burren.

Little did I know I needn't have worried. Because in my whirlwind of stress and sadness, and yes, a little self-pity (hey, we're all allowed a little now and then) I had forgotten something very important.

Life isn't necessarily about the people you experience it with, but more the experiences themselves. Friends will come and go, and the ones who truly matter won't go, and the ones who go didn't matter in the first place. And when the ones who didn't matter go, if you're a good person with a good heart and a little bit of luck, the people who had been ancillary until now will step up and fill that void, in unexpectedly pleasant ways.

And that is how I found myself again dancing to the music. Dancing to the vocal stylings of the Swinging Johnsons. And in some ways it wasn't the same, and in some ways it was, and in some ways, yes, it was better. For one thing, they play out here in Waltham too, so I didn't have to travel far or worry so much about having a few beers with friends. For another thing, Waltham isn't inundated with stupid college kids who bump into me and spill my Magner's, and wear stupid outfits that irritate me.

I was surrounded by the people who have stepped up into my life in the recent months and become more than I could have asked of them, especially through some very difficult times. Anne, Benny and Lynne, Marcus, Erin, Joel and Heidi, and finally, my loving, supportive, horrible white-boy-dancer, Paul. And they can sing Journey off key, and they can save all their molson labels for me, and they can laugh about parties we've had and bad days at work.

So kids, what did we learn today?

We learned that no matter where you are in life, there will be people there with you, dancin to the music.

Harrumph

2006-02-13T14:49:00.000-05:00

My fiance just started a blog. Well, not really. He just started utilizing the blog option on MySpace. I prefer to think I at least put a little more effort into creating mine. That makes me feel better.

And why do I need to feel better? Because he's funnier than me! His blog is funny. It's clever and insane and interesting all at once. And that's not fair. I'M the writer in this relationship! He can't have EVERYTHING, can he? Can't I at least have one thing I'm better at?

Okay, so I'm a better writer overall. Anybody would tell you that. I got a degree in it for chrissakes, I better be better overall. But I can never seem to get humor into mine. Through my whole life people have told me my best writing came out when I was angry, or upset, or pissed off, or feeling as though something unjust was happening in my immediate realm.

So what. I can only write when I'm pissed? Then I'm not terribly talented at all, am I? That would make me horribly one-sided, wouldn't it? Or maybe it's true what my little brother says...I do, in fact, have a complete absence of a sense of humor. Maybe that's why I can't write funny.

So now I'm stuck here sitting pondering a number of different things. One, my sudden urge to re-post blogs from now on at MySpace to satiate my vicious competitive needs. No, that would be silly and petty, and well...would probably take up too much time. Two, my lack of creative humor writing ability and the effect it is having on my self-esteem as a writer overall. And three, why the hell I just can't be happy that he's expressing himself and doing it damn well.

Why? Because I'M the damn writer that's why. And for once I don't want something that I actually believed I was good at taken away from me.

And besides. He has terrible spelling and grammar.

So I guess that makes me feel better.

Sigh.

Explosion

2006-02-01T22:34:00.000-05:00

They say in all the literature for relatives and families of alcoholics that the effects of alcoholism are that of the ripple effect. Bullshit. There is absolutely no similarity between what alcoholism does and the ripple effect.

For starters, the ripple effect has to do with water, which is calm, serene, cool, and deep. A ripple effect occurs when a drop disturbs the surface of the water. The initial ripple is bigger, with smaller ripples ringing it. But what's the worst that happens? The surface is uneven for a few moments and then all is back to normal. No lasting notice that there was ever even a drop. Nothing.

The effects of alcoholism I have decided are best compared to that of an explosion. I'll use a molotov cocktail, since we're talking about booze.

BANG.

The bottle explodes, spraying glass and burning liquid everywhere. Those closest to the bottle, the alcoholic's family are the closest to the explosion. They are the ones who catch the shockwave, the largest pieces of glass shrapnel, the most burning liquid. They are the ones who sustain the worst injuries, the deepest cuts, the worst burns. The will be the ones with the deepest, longest lasting, and most permanent scarring. And yes. I am scarred. This isn't fucking baggage, you can't call what happened to me a fucking carry-on. I am scarred and I am not afraid or ashamed. I wear my scars with honor now. I didn't always, and I won't say they don't still hurt. Just in different ways that I am now able to be open about.

But it doesn't stop with the children and the spouse. There's still glass flying. And it goes everywhere. Significant others of the children. Boyfriends, girlfriends. They either catch the shrapnel, or have to help bear the burden of their loved ones' scars. Neither can be pleasant. They have to be supportive while often injured as well. Extended family have to watch their loved ones suffer and heal, suffer and heal.

And the surface never returns to normal. The environment is destroyed. Holes in the walls, scorch marks everywhere. Home is never the same, life is never the same.

BANG.

And each explosion is worse. Each set of scars deeper than the last. Because each new set of scars destroys each feeling of hope. Every time there is hope. Maybe it won't happen again. We can clean this up. We can repair everything. The bleeding will stop and we'll all patch up. And each time, the mopping and the cleaning and the healing is almost done and

BANG.

More blood. More scars. More burned out hollow shells of homes and families and relationships. And each time the anger between those who are sober. Whose scars are the worst? Who's going to clean the mess this time? Who's going to make sure it doesn't happen again?

BANG.

So you can take your water comparisons and shove them.

Because nothing ever settles back to be calm and serene. And these scars heal. But they never go away.

You Don't Understand

2006-01-25T16:39:00.000-05:00

Why is it that when you tell people "You don't understand", they take offense? It's not meant as an offensive, merely and observation that what you're feeling is outside their frame of reference.

I have made a lot of choices in the last 2 years that have made my frame of reference very different from that of most of my friends. In addition, choices have been made around me that have also affected my frame of reference.

In so many ways, my life has become a military life. I am a bride of Uncle Sam. I am learning to speek in acronyms, or at least understand when entire conversations occur in them. I have become far less liberal than I once was because things I used to decry affect me in a much different way. My fiancee is military. His friends are military. My friends are military. And now, my brother is military.

You wouldn't think it would change things around so much, but it does! There are a lot of perks, and a lot of negatives. You enjoy the perks, and you learn to live with the negatives.

For example: I LOVE LOVE LOVE shopping at bases. They are so much cheaper, the selection is all in one place, and it's fun to see how cheaply I can live. That is a definite perk.

But there is the chance that my fiance could get deployed before we get married. There's a chance my brother might have to miss my wedding. There's a chance (god forbid) that my fiance, my brother, and any of mine or their friends could die. People always say things like "I could never live with that", or "how do you deal with that?" or "You must hate that". And the answers are, I DO live with that because it's people I love, I deal with it because I have to because I love them, and no, I don't like it all the time, but I don't hate it, and day by day with love and support I'm learning not to think about it. What good does dwelling on it and worrying about it do?

But what I do hate is when people either try to understand something they simply can't, or get angry when I tell them they don't.

I have had so many people compare my loved ones being gone to their friends/family/boyfriends being on vacations or business trips. And no. It is NOT the same. And NO, you do NOT understand what it is like for me. You do not understand what it is like to have absolutely no contact with someone you normally see everyday, for two weeks, or in my brother's case, 7 months. There are no cutesie text messages, no phone calls, no cheap trinkets from the airport gift shop.

You do not understand what it is like for your boyfriend's second job to be something that could someday take him away from you permanently.

You do not understand why I do this, or how I do this, or what it takes.

And you do not understand that I am not saying this to be a martyr, or to get attention. I made my choices in life. I fell in love with who I fell in love with. My brother and friends made the right decisions for themselves. And I support them and keep them in my life because I love them and because I have to. It does not make me a better person. It does not mean I deserve any respect, admiration, or attention. It merely means that my life is now, and will always be different.

And you don't understand.

And to all the friends, and family of military personal, my respect goes out to you for the live you have chosen, and/or the life you chose to support.

So Much To Say

2006-01-22T11:00:00.000-05:00

Somebody asked me recently why I hadn't posted in a while. "With all that has happened in your life recently, don't you have so much material?!"

Yes. I have so much to say. TOO much to say. There is so much running rampant through my head that I can't get it out onto black and white. I can't make sense of it all, and even when I can, I can't seem to find the right words. And though this has always been a place of wordsmithing refuge, I have never wanted to halfass it simply because "stuff has happened". But it's time. None of it all makes anymore sense than it did yesterday or the day before. The words aren't coming any easier. But I think maybe if I force some words out of the chaos in my mind that maybe it'll be a bit easier to get through the day.

In the space of a week I went through 4 days of massive parties for my brother who was leaving for the Army, had my aunt die, had my brother leave, had the wake, the funeral, and still managed to only miss a little over a day of work.

People asked at work "why the hell are you here? We can manage without you, it's okay if you need to leave!" Leave for what? So I can go home and be alone with my thoughts? My thoughts that run and run and run until I either cry (which I hate to do, despite how often it has happened lately) or go out and do something? I might as well be at work where I can throw myself into the day and let the job and the kids distract me from things for a while. I might as well go to work where I can pretend my routine is completely the same.

Where I can pretend that later this week I'll go to the house where I grew up and my brother will tease me at least once for a "blonde" comment, and where we'll all laugh at Ron Burgundy impressions.

But I won't. Because he's not there. And won't be for a while. And there are no words to describe how infinitely difficult that is. Made even more difficult by the fact that I feel enormously selfish for missing him. Here he is finally off doing what he really wants to do- finally moving forward where he has been treading water for the last year in a limbo that made him miserable- and I'm sad about it?

Part of me thinks "who the hell am I to feel this way?" And the other part of me thinks "I'm the sister and I'm sad and I miss him." And both sides of my mind tell each other to fuck off.

Where I can pretend that Madge will still be at the next Thanksgiving, and the next Christmas and that she'll make it to my wedding, and that it's all a mistake.

But I can't, because it's not. I was there at the wake and funeral. I saw her go into the same ground where we buried someone else almost 5 years ago. And again, I know she was older and that it was probably time. And again I feel selfish for wanting it not to be true. But I also feel like I do have that right to be sad. I do have the right to wish it back, or at least wish it hadn't all happened at once.

And none of this all makes sense, as I knew it would. I'll just have to settle for this being a fairly crappy blog entry. I'll have to settle because it was simply time to put all this somewhere else but all inside my head. It was time to get it out, and I couldn't do that with spoken words unless accompanied by tears and I'm tired of crying.

So I'll keep missing them. And I'll write to one, and think of the other. And I'll go visit them both in very different ways when I get the opportunity. And life will go on, and it will be different and the same all at once. And I guess that is how it is supposed to work.

But like I feel I've said a lot lately. Some things are true, and real and you can't do anything about them. And you just have to deal. But that doesn't make it any easier.

Just cause you can't change it, doesn't make it easier. And it doesn't mean there is any less to say.

2006-01-11T21:10:00.000-05:00

Why do we spend so much of our life wondering if what we're feeling is "right"? Who decided what was right in the first place? Why is it that we have our own internal conscience and this weird external one? Where does that external one come from? Where do we get the idea of "should"?

I started shopping for a wedding dress last week. Sure, with a year and a half to the wedding it was a bit early. But my MOH lives in Scotland, and I wanted her to have a part of it. I figured I'd just look around a bit, get some ideas, and finalize my decision later, closer to the date. I was convinced I'd have to look for a while. I was convinced I wouldn't actually want to buy until closer to the wedding.

But there it was, 5 dresses in. The dress that made me want to try on a veil and a tiara, and shoes, and everything else. It was perfect. Perfect fit, perfect style, perfect weight, everything. My mom and MOH agreed it was lovely. But then there it was...that external idea of "should". I should look longer. I should wait to make a decision. I should try on lots of dresses before I can be sure. I should get more opinions. Dresses should cost a certain amount. Dresses can't be that great if they're not expensive.

But why? Where the hell did all that come from? The dress is perfect. It has everything I always wanted. Little buttons, plain front, etc. etc. Why was I sitting there trying to talk myself out of something I really actually wanted? Why was I letting some random ideas about how my experience "should" be dictate what it actually was?

So I'm not. My dress is my dress. I'm so excited and I'm not going to let anybody, real or imagined take that away from me. Dresses can be perfect no matter when you try them on, or where, or in what order. Dresses don't have to cost thousands. And the only opinion that matter is my own.

And it's gorgeous and I love it.

Seems Like Just Yesterday

2006-01-09T14:50:00.000-05:00

I was looking at my blog today, admiring the long list of archived entries when I realized something. While I have been prolific, the main cause of my huge archive is the fact that I've been blogging here for almost 2 years. TWO YEARS? Two years of my life, my ups and downs, my silly little thoughts and my big huge annoyances all here for everyone to see. All here in cyberspace.

I used to try every year to start journals. I used to have diaries and journals and writing assignments for myself galore, and it always somehow fell by the wayside. And yet here I am with a 2 year old journal that represents so much of who I am and who I was and who I have become.

And yet it seems like just yesterday that I began this. It seems like just yesterday I was convinced that Josh was on the verge of dumping me, and whether or not I was simply right, or created my own self-fufilling prophecy, I have to give him credit for inspiring something that has become so very important to me. I have to give him credit for making me feel in a way I hadn't in a very long time. For making me feel in a way that was so strong that it just had to pour out of my fingers as they flew over my silver keyboard desperately trying to keep up. And I also have to give him credit for being such an artisitic force that I almost felt as though I was being dishonest letting what little talent I had sit and rot away from disuse. So to you Josh, the original inspiration, thank you.

The ups and downs are in here. The excitement, the moments of hurt and hate, the moments of pure unadulterated joy. My opinions, though many have changed over time, immortalised here in black and white. People, places, my own personal "In My Life" song that has lasted hundreds of entries and now years of writing.

Was it always any good? Nah. There's a lot of crap in here I'll admit. But the one place where I am proud of myself is that nothing has been taken down. It's all truth in some small way or another, so why edit it now? It's no less honest now than it was when I wrote it, albeit inapplicable.

It may seem like just yesterday, but then I read it over and realize it's not. Two years is a long time and a fraction of time depending on which scheme of things is your focus. But I am so very lucky that no matter how you consider it, I have this incredible record. And for that I am proud of myself. For that, today, I will toot my own horn.

And tomorrow I will keep writing. In fact, I think I'll keep this going as long as it is possible to. And then someday, I'll be looking back thinking what a fast 5 years it's been. What a fast decade it's been. And how glad that I put it all down here, in writing. Even though it will always seem like just yesterday.

If you hurt me, thank you. If you loved me, thank you. If you made me hate, laugh, cry, feel, thank you.

Been Here Before

2005-12-30T18:51:00.000-05:00

I feel like I've been here before. Like I've written what I'm about to write before. But I'm so full of things to say right now that I don't even care. My fingers haven't flown like this in so long.

The true test of an artist, of a song, is time. Does the song that was the "story of your life", your "theme song" when you were fourteen have any relevance now? If it does, it is truly a worthy creation.

It was with that in mind that I chose a new song for my Myspace page. And it's a song I've loved since high school. A song that no matter what the story of my life has been at the time, no matter the chapter I was writing, was the theme. Was the background music. It struck me as odd at first that I gravitated toward the song. Because really? I was a total mess when the song really described me. Does that mean I'm a total mess now? No. I'm actually quite happy with where I am these days. I'm moving forward in so many ways, I'm getting on with my life and my career and my relationships. And yet there it was. The unexpected obvious choice.

My words confuse you. My eyes don't move a blink. Cause it's easier sometimes not to be sincere somehow I make you believe. When I speak I cross my fingers. Will you know you've been deceived? I find a need to be the demon. A demon cannot be hurt. Honest is easy. Fiction's where genius lies. Cause it's easier sometimes not to be involved, somehow I make you believe.

Am I still after all these years a dishonest person? After shrinks, and life changes, and living on my own and finding myself? Yes and no.

Are we ever really honest with each other? Think about it. Does anybody in your life know everything about you? Really everything? No. Because it's easier to keep some things to yourself. It's easier sometimes not to be involved. It's easier sometimes to tell half truths and leave the tough parts out.

Does my brother need to know it's killing me that he's leaving? No. What he needs to know is that I'm proud as hell of him and that I'm behind him 100 percent no matter what he chooses to do with his life.

Do my liberal friends need to know that with a military brother and fiance I'm not so liberal anymore? No. Because I still love them and want them still to love me. And it's easier to leave some of my new opinions out of it.

Do my roomates need to know I dance in the shower along to Sirius radio and sing into my poouf when nobody is home? Definitely not.

Do friends I've lost touch with need to know I can't decide whether I hate them or miss them? No. It's easier this way. I can't be hurt if I don't say anything. I can be if I become the survivor friend yet again and get voted off the island.

Do those who joke about me BEING the survivor friend need to know how deep it cuts? No. It's easier to hurt on my own than to make someone else hurt for me.

Does a family member who is sick need to know that hell no I don't want them to give up? No. It's selfish of me, and it's their decision how hard they want to fight. And do I want to hear that they don't? No. It's easier sometimes not to be involved. Somehow I'll believe what I want on my own.

And last but not least does my Myspace page represent me? Entirely? No. When I speak I cross my fingers. Nobody in cyberspace needs to know everything about me.

And so despite the fact that perhaps the lies are gone, maybe the truth is a long way away. Will I ever let anybody all the way in? Will my demon walls ever come down? Yes and no. They do piece by piece with the important people. But then again, the important people are the ones who need protecting the most sometimes. So I'll be truthful yes. But will I ever be completely honest?

Is anybody? I think we all have a little demon in us. Don't we?

Resolution

2005-12-27T22:00:00.000-05:00

I am not making any resolutions this year. None. I think they are total and complete bullshit.

I mean really. What makes you think that just because it is January first that any decision you make on that day is any different from any decision on any other day? Why, because you write a new set of 2 numbers on your checks? Because it's all fresh and new?

Nothing is fresh and new about January. January is as cold and nasty as December was and as February will be. Nothing is different except the distance from holidays (and my beloved Christmas is another whole year away, but my July 3rd is only 7 months), the last 2 numbers of the date, and what people will tell you is in style.

Why do we pick January first to quit smoking get in shape stop eating junk food get together more often with our relatives be nicer to our moms advance our career watch less tv and get to bed earlier?

I personally tried to be a better person all year this year. And yes, I had a resolution- to try foods I had up until now said I hated. Which was great, but is something I should be doing anyway! This year I tried to do more for charity, both with my time and my money. This year I tried to be healthier, something at which I both excelled and failed miserably. This year I went back to school and finally got my teaching license.

Why should I pick just one of those qualities to focus on in the new year? Shouldn't I focus on all of them? Shouldn't every day of every person's life be dedicated to becoming a better person? And yeah, you might fail. You might fail for a whole week, or a whole month, or hell, a whole year, but at least your goal was to do everything everyday. Not just some stupid promise you made on January first that you've now broken.

Resolutions are stupid.

The Most...

2005-12-27T21:45:00.000-05:00

It's the most wonderful time of the year....

Till it's over. And then there's just nothing. I came to a conclusion tonight. And I am coining a new condition. Post-Christmas-Depression.

I've had it all my life and only just realized it. Even when I was very very small, I hated the end of Christmas. Everything leading up to it is wonderful. I love picking out the tree, the way it smells, the way it looks in the living room. I love to decorate it with all the sentimental ornaments my family has collected over the years (despite the brutal hip-replacement my soccer player ornament will require before re-packing this season). I love baking cookies, and finding the perfect presents for everyone on my list. I love the surprises and the family time together (even if all the males in my family pretend to be grinches, I know they're really not). I love the carols and the cold crisp air, and I even, sometimes, love the malls with their crowds and elevator music and fake-santas.

And it builds up and builds up, and the excitement is palpable, and then in one day,

the presents are open
the wrapping is in the trash
the meal has been devoured
the leftovers packed
the decorations unceremoniously yanked from every store
and the once all-christmas-all-the-time stations have reverted back to their regular platforms.

There are 24 days leading up to Christmas. And it's gone in 24 hours.

When I was little I used to try and leave my presents in the living room as long as possible, just so it would look like Christmas was this morning, or just yesterday. Then my mother would snap at me to give her the living room back and I would load them up to my room, and sniffle.

And nothing is changed. Today I loaded my goodies into bags and brought them to my apartment. And I don't know why this year it was so hard. I don't know why I want to cry thinking about it now. I don't know why it felt so very wrong to bring them to my apartment and not upstairs. This isn't my first Christmas not living at home. But perhaps since it is the first Christmas since I moved back? I don't know. Was I trying to prolong the feeling like I always have? Why can't I let go?

Or maybe I'm the one who is right. Why do we go through all the build up just for it to happen and then be over. Why can't the Christmas season start a week later (I mean, really...3 days after the Halloween decorations go it's already Christmastime?!) and then go for another week after it's over. Couldn't we make the return season part of the Christmas season? Couldn't the decorations come down in stages? The radio stations slowly phase out Deck the Halls? Couldn't we leave one or two presents under the tree so it doesn't seem like such a quick and brutal end?

Am I the only one who is sad when it's all said and done? Is there no one else who feels like Christmas is built up and built up and then yanked away? Am I a modernday Tiny Tim wishing we could keep the Christmas spirit year round?

Or is it just me? Is it just me wanting to be a little kid again and not have an apartment to take my gifts back to? Is it just me being so miserable that my kid brother is moving away and yet so happy for him it just makes the hurt so confusing? Is it just me being so worried that my Aunt Madge, the most stubborn woman I ever met, seems to be giving up? Is it just me being bummed that what used to be a much bigger family holiday has fallen apart due to in-family bickering and feuds? Is it just me with a few unwanted tears dropping down my cheeks as I write this testimonial to the end of Christmas.

I find I feel this way for a lot of things. I looked back and found a blog about the end of summer and how I was giving myself a right to feel sad about it. But even summer tapers off. All the seasons blend into the next. All birthdays have a few early cards and a few belated gifts. So often we are given the opportunity to celebrate what we love and grieve when it's gone.

So why can't I find holly in the mall and The Most Wonderful Time of the Year on my FM dial?

trade

2005-12-14T21:52:00.000-05:00

Sign me up for my headache and nosebleed please!

Oh. And while you're at it, why don't you just punch me in the face, so I can have the bruise to go with the headache and bloody nose.

And that's why staying in some nights is better than a martini in makeup and heels. Who knows when your fiance is going to come up with a brilliant and witty response to....
wait for it...

A flonase ad.

Yup. You too can take Flonase and get rid of your allergies. And in exchange you can have a headache and a nosebleed. And how does that make sense?

Life is full of trade offs, yes. I've had many this year. I've traded in old friendships that simply weren't working anymore. I've traded working in public school for private. And a private education for a public one. I've traded single/relationship for affianced and marriage bound. I've traded nights out for nights in. I traded being part of big possies of friends for individual, more personal friendships that I nurture one-on-one. I've traded shopping sprees for down payment savings.

And I think I'm better for it. So maybe nosebleeds and headaches are worth it to avoid allergies. Maybe that is a good trade-off.

Either way, it's a damn good laugh on a wednesday night in.

Points of view

2005-11-29T23:03:00.000-05:00

A friend made a good point today.

Today has been a rough day. I had to make decisions that really bothered me in regards to my blog. I have continued to get messages that are terribly aggravating as the person won't tell me who they are to have such opinions about me, my writing, and more importantly my person. They continue to attack the fact that they feel my blog is selfish, self-absorbed, and one-sided.

As my friend pointed out, this is not the New York Times. I am not under any obligation to present any opinion other than my own. There is no requirement that I leave up any comments that bother me, or indulge any persons that bother me. I did not allow comments for it to be an OpEd attack, I allowed them for constructive flow of ideas. The comments I have blocked have not ever been constructive, rather they have been personal attacks that have hurt.

A blog is much similar for many people to a journal, or a diary. A diary is a very personal item, one in which someone notes their innermost thoughts and feelings. It is a place where we are allowed to be selfish, and conceited, and one-sided. It is a place where we vent all of our personal feelings with little to no regard for the outside opinions that may be a result of those feelings. While my blog is not necessarily a journal or diary, it does fall under the protection of being mine. My space in which to put down my thoughts, ideas, and inspirations. My place to share with others what is on my mind. All in all, it's mine. And if others don't like it, they don't have to read it.

Those who know me will tell you that for the most part I am open to the exchange of ideas, that I'm often willing to admit culpability and wrong, and that I try to be a good person. I have off days like everyone else, days in which I am insufferable and a pain, but who doesn't? This is not the place to discuss me as a person. This is a place to comment on what I have written in content and in style.

If you don't like my sentence structure, I welcome friendly suggestions. If you think Bush does have a brain hiding in there somewhere, I'd love to hear your theories as to why. If you agree or disagree that the Catholic church is pushing away its young people, speak up. If you believe that the military is treated exceptionally poorly for the service they provide, I welcome your addition to what I have to say.

But if you have a problem with me personally, drop me an e-mail. Tell me who you are and how I have slighted you and I will do my best to rectify the situation. But this is not the place. This place is mine. And I will write as I please.

Sad Day

2005-11-29T11:46:00.000-05:00

Today is a sad day. Today I had to change the settings on my blog for the first time since I created it. I have now made the decision not to allow anonymous postings. I never wanted to do that! I like hearing what people have to say, I enjoyed some of the witty reparte that others struck up in response to what I wrote. But I started this blog for one reason and one reason alone. To write, and to have a forum in which to share writing. Mainly I know my readers have been my fellow writers from my days in college. Other English majors who wanted to continue to hear my thoughts and ideas on life, love, politics, and everything else under the sun. People who had encouraged me for 3 years to write, and to write well. Other readers have inspired me further, forced me to question myself and my ideas, and in many ways been incredibly valuable.

But lately I have been plagued with a series of anonymous comments that have been rude, unnecessary, obnoxious, and annoying. My blog should not be a source of annoyance to ME. It is mine! My place. I don't know if this anonymous is one person or many who all seem to have the same vendetta and need to be an irritation. I don't know why they chose to continue reading if they don't like what is here to read. And I don't know why they don't have the wherewithal to simply identify themselves.

But nonetheless, I don't feel like listening any more. This does not mean I do not welcome comments and banter regarding what I have to say, in fact it is quite the opposite. Now more than ever I welcome the exchange of ideas. I have just now made it necessary for people to back their ideas with a name, a face, an identity. I put mine out there, I challenge all others to do the same.

Technoweenie

2005-11-28T15:34:00.000-05:00

I went to the library today. Actually, I drove the short bus to the library today. It was field trip day for the middle school, and we had some checking-out to get on!

So there I am flipping through the cd's, and lo and behold I find a fabulous Christmas cd I have been dying to get my hands on for quite some time.

As I'm driving home, I'm thinking about how fabulous I am, as I plan on surprising my mom by putting a few festive songs on her computer for when she works. And wait, before you accuse me of being an evil music stealer, let me inform you that she doesn't have a cd burner, or file to file sharing, so it will be for private enjoyment only. Ha! See how savvy I am? I know what file to file sharing is and everything!

Or wait. Is it user to user? Person to person?

Crap.

And then I signed on to check my e-mail and ran into a friend. This friend is super excited these days because he has created the new podcasting anthem that thousands of people have now downloaded.

Podcasting?

Oh yes, and he will be writing the score for a new podcast show done by an ex-mtv-vj!

A show? On my ipod?

I'm so confused. I barely discover that my ipod has games, I finally figure out how to delete songs I'm bored of from it...and yet...

Podcasting, pod people? Weekly shows on my little blue mini? Itunes and podcasts and downloads oh my!

Yup...I'm a technoweenie. And damn proud of it.

wonderwoman

2005-11-11T20:12:00.000-05:00

Who do you know who in one year can:
Get cancer
Go through chemo
Beat cancer
Run the public relations for a multi-million dollar company
Take the GRE's
Apply to grad school further away from home than she's ever been
Maintain a relationship
Maintain all her friendships
AND be the most amazingly beautiful person you've ever seen?

I bet you don't even know someone like that. You probably don't because people like that I didn't even think existed. But they do. And this wonderwoman is one of my closest friends.

Friendships aren't easy. They come and go, the ebb and flow, the peak and they fade. It takes an immense amount of work to maintain them, and there has to be one hell of a bond to make it worth all that work. There has to be a damn good reason to keep calling, to keep writing, to keep trying to get lunch, or coffee even when schedules are busy and lives are complicated. But when you have KP in your life, it's worth it. you leave every interaction, every conversation, every e-mail feeling lifted. Feeling like you're a better person because you spent time with her. She's the kind of woman who rubs off on you. Makes you want to work at your goals just that little bit harder. Makes you want to succeed just a little bit more. Makes you want to make someone else feel as good as she makes you feel. And she does it all with a humble smile, and a push into the dressing room to try on jeans that she will honestly tell you give you plumber's ass. And you'll appreciate it all.

There's no real reason for ths blog other than that I hope she'll read it, and I hope that evryone else who reads it has in their lives someone just as special.

And because I just needed to write something good. There's not enough good in this world. And I don't want to get sucked into bitchy blog syndrome.

New-vo

2005-11-11T00:21:00.000-05:00

Since I don't know how to correctly spell new-vo, I'll do it phonetically for now.

There has been recently, a surge of popularity of judaism among people my age. Jewish groups, both social and religious are springing up everywhere. Jews have their own version of Match.com, and their own versions of Young Professionals. Young Jews are garnering cover stories on magazines and newspapers.

I'm jealous. I know some of these new Jews. They are dedicated, caring, fun-loving, good people. They care about themselves and their faith. They teach Sunday school, they attend Temple. They have every aspect of their lives covered, from career, to social life, to faith.

So in this time of crisis, what is the Catholic church responding with? More condemnation and alienation.

Why can't there be a new-vo Catholicism?

Addendum

2005-11-11T00:14:00.000-05:00

One of the reasons I am no longer technically a part of the group of "girlz" I once ran with is this accusation I tired of hearing. "You're no fun anymore!" Well...that was true in a way. If your definition of fun included beginning your evening at 10 and ending it between 2 and 4 AM, then yes. I was no fun anymore. However, maybe it's not so much that I wasn't fun anymore. Maybe, as I discovered tonight, it was that my hours have changed. Much like the difference between the 7-11's in small towns and cities. Perhaps it's not that I'm not fun, but that I'm only fun between the hours of 6 and midnight. I thought I had fun tonight. I went to a benefit, I ate good food, I went trick or treating with a near-stranger. I played darts and drank traditional martinis, and I ended the night with good conversation and good drinks at a bar. And all of that and I'm home by midnight. So perhaps the accusations were false. Or maybe misdirected. Or maybe my new store hours just didn't fit my old customers.

So for those of you wondering, the new hours of fun begin after work and end by midnight. And for those of you who accused me of being devoid of fun, well...you were wrong. You were just shopping at the wrong times.

And then there was one

2005-10-24T18:54:00.000-05:00

One fewer that is. I have been officially dropped. Like getting kicked out of your clique in High School. You didn't really realize it had happened till it was too late. And maybe it was your fault. You may even be able to go back and pinpoint a time or two that you screwed up, maybe overreacted, maybe not. People have very varying ideas of friendship.

So am I disappointed? Half and half. Not so much in no longer being a part of something that perhaps I was not meant to participate in any longer. People grow and change and as a result grow apart. What once may have been a commonality (blatant alcoholism, casual sex with anonymous partners, and a complete disregard for fiscal responsibility) may now be the wedge pushing the gap. What once may have been mutually beneficial may now be not so much. Where you may once have held value you may not any longer. So am I disappointed that another ride is over? Nah. Should I have kept my arms more safely inside the cart? Perhaps. Would I go back on the ride if I could go back? Hell yes. It was fun while it lasted.

What disappoints me is the way it all happened. First it was getting dropped from e-mails. Sure my few remaining friends made valiant efforts to re-add me to the list, but in vain. I appreciate their efforts. Then it was knowing there were soirees going on that I knew I had been left off the list for. But the final straw occured right here in the blogosphere ladies and gents. Right here on the very stage I have enjoyed a presence on for the last year and a half. When I realized that not only was I off the lists on the internet, I was off the list completely, I did wish somebody had had the courtesy to say so. Nobody likes getting written out of the script without a fair warning.

But what do you do? What do you do when you slowly but surely realize 3 things, that 1) your life is changing 2) theirs are not and 3) you can't make up the difference anymore? How do you stay friends when your day begins at 7, and theirs only ended a mere 4 hours before? How do you stay friends when chill evenings of barbecues and microbrews with cousins have replaced lounges and martinis as the weekend of choice? What do you do when the choices you just don't agree with outnumber those you do?

We'd all like to believe in the best friend. The person that's there through thick and thin forever. But it's not real, and it's not true, and it doesn't exist. I have 2 friends that have lasted a very long test of time. But it wasn't always wine and roses, and the only saving grace was that history won out over anger. But this time there wasn't enough history I guess.

And then there was one fewer. The rollercoaster ride has an empty seat. And I'm off to a new ride. And some will come with me, and some won't.

And them's the breaks I guess.

Will and Gracefully Insane

2005-10-18T22:04:00.000-05:00

I love my job. Yes, that's right, I love my job. As I walked out today just about quarter to four, my co-worker drop-kicked a trashcan and we all descended into the kind of near-insane laughter that can only come from a mutually trying day.

You only hear that laughter in jobs like mine I think.

You only hear that laughter after a day filled with melt-downs, screaming, biting, kicking, and a little bit of meowing. And that was only 2 students. And it was only before lunch. You only hear that laughter when there is nothing left to do but laugh. You're past tears, you're past screaming. You just have to stop, think, and laugh.

I have worked in the same field for several years now. I have always loved to teach. But it has been quite some time since I have loved my job. Because teaching isn't just what everybody thinks it is. It doesn't just consist of ABC's and paper grading. There is so much else on top of it; parents, beauraucracy, paperwork and other crap. And then there are the people you work with. If you don't like your counterparts, how can you enjoy being crammed with them for 7, 8, 9 hours a day? I loved working with students from day one. But I didn't like my job.

Now I love it. I love going to work every morning. I feel terrible if I'm late (like this morning due to an inexplicable difficulty dragging my own ass out of bed), whereas I used to show up seconds before the students. I hang around doing work, chatting with co-workers, and actually enjoying staff meetings after the students leave. Sometimes for an hour, sometimes two, sometimes more, whereas I used to bolt faster than a speeding ten-year-old. I have to force myself to stop coming up with new ideas, new lesson plans, new thoughts on helpful ways of dealing with issues for each individial student long enough for me to fall asleep at night.

Don't get me wrong. There are bad days like every other job. I still look forward to Fridays, drinks after work with co-workers, and the promise of an adolescent-free weekend. But the bad days are few and far between. And now they are so much more tempered by the fact that

I love my job.

Which inspired the title of today's blog. Will and Grace, a sitcom. Our lives at work could easily make for some of the funniest, and often most touching reality television anybody had ever seen. But it won't. Because it occurs on a campus which inspired the book, Gracefully Insane.

Where I work, we're all a little bit of Will, Grace, and sometimes "Just Jack". And we're all a little bit of Gracefully Insane.

And I love it.

Questions I Have

2005-10-13T17:42:00.000-05:00

I have a lot of questions rolling around in my head today. I thought I'd share them. In no particular order:

If you don't like my blog, why do you continue to read it? If it's depressing, and occasionally rife with spelling errors, why would you bother to stop on by? More so, if you don't like it enough to comment on it, why wouldn't you at least identify yourself? At least let me know who my not-so-constructive-critic is! But mostly, if you hate it, why do you keep coming back? And being nasty? If I go to a restaurant and hate the food, I don't go back again. And I certainly don't go back again, order something, and then viciously complain to management about how their food sucks. If I don't like a magazine I don't buy it again. If I don't like how a perfume smelled on me I don't buy it again. So if you don't like it, stop reading! There are a billion other blogs out there. Go torture yourself with someone else's!

Shouldn't there be some point at which a President gets dropped? I mean, seriously...almost two-thirds of the country thinks he bites and is doing a shitty job, and yet we're stuck with him and his poor choices, poor leadership, and pathetic floundering until 08? Someone tell me how that is fair. If I worked at an advertising firm, and more than 2/3's of my co-workers thought I was doing a crappy job and simply didn't like me, and felt I was a poor match for the company, I'd be fired. Shouldn't there be something like the SELL POINT in stocks? If you own stock, you can tell your broker "If it drops below 60, SELL!" It's a way of protecting yourself against too big of a loss. Well...Bush has dropped below 40 percent. Why can't we sell?

Why is asthma so damn pervasive? I had a fairly major asthma attack the other night, brought on by a fairly mild chest cold. So I called my doctor. I asked her, why is it that I can run triathlons, run 5K's, bike up to 25 miles in one go, run stairs with no problem, and yet at the first sign of a cold, they go "oops, we quit!"? This makes no sense to me. Clearly I have a high lung capacity. I don't smoke, I work out several times a week, I eat healthily, what's the deal? She gave me some lame answers about how asthma is not directly tied to how healthy your lungs are, but it didn't really help. So even though I can stairmaster and treadmill with the best of them, why can't I breathe today?

And finally, why are non-binding fall clothes so difficult to find this year? I work with hormone ridden teenage boys. I don't particularly want my mammaries falling out of what I wear to work.

Your Blogs Are Depressing

2005-10-11T17:08:00.000-05:00

And your "Anonymous" post was annoying.

I'm sorry, do I depress you? Do I piss you off? Do I make you mad, sad, annoyed, irritated, vexed, thoughtful, pained?

Oh wait. Those are feelings. That require thought. HA! I made you think. And feel! Man, am I awesome!

Is that what you want? Happy? Lots of exclamation points and butterflies and fuzzy clouds? Margaritas and stillettos, sex, love, rock and roll, drugs and babies?

Then go find another fucking blog.

My blogs are depressing? Well too damn bad. My blogs are about whatever the hell I want them to be about. They are about whatever makes me think, makes me feel, makes me want to write. Sunshine and bluebirds do not (to quote Ten Things) "whip me into a verbal frenzy".

So oh anonymous, anonymous, wherefor art thou anonymous-

What do you want? You want my blogs to boost your ego? You want them to make you smile? You want them to make the world happy and okay? All right. I'll make everything happy and okay...and insincere and fake and shallow and stupid and filled with bullshit rhetoric designed to keep models in business, and ipod prices up, and shoes that hurt your feet on the market, and lipstick coming in everincreasingly annoying shades, and valium a goddamned staple for the life of millions of Americans.

Or maybe you should just go buy a People and the new Candace Bushnell.

Have fun.

Hmmm

2005-10-11T16:36:00.000-05:00

So here is a little listing I guess of some of the bizzarre things said on my trip to Tennessee this weekend.

I was called, in no particular order, Sugar, Honey, Doll, Baby, Darlin', Sugarpie, Sweetie, Sweetiepie, Baby Doll, Honey pie, Sug, y'all (which I didn't know could actually be used in the singular form) and many others I can't even remember. Sadly there were a few Ma'am's thrown in there, which I'm not entirely sure how I feel about. This was a certain departure from the "Hey you's" or plain old ignoring I get from most service people in my native Northeast.

I had sweet tea for the first time, and was instructed on how to pronounce it correctly. If you are wondering, it's something like Swayeeeeet Tayeeee. It's yummy.

I made the mistake of asking what in the hell one buys at a Christian Store, and was informed, NO, you could not actually buy Christians. You buy things like bibles and home decor. Christian home decor.

One more than one occasion, I really wanted to finish someone's sentence for them, because it just took so damn long for them to speak.

But more than anything else, the most entertaining thing I heard the whole trip was the following exchange.

"Well do you think you'll have more kids?"
"Well, I'd rather just stay with two, but we ain't takin' any precautionaries."
"Pardon?"
"Well, he don't wanna get fixed, and I don't wanna get fixed...an' I don't like the pill, an' he don't like me on the pill...an' he don't like wearin' a hood. So I guess we'll end up with one or two more..."
"Umm...oh"
"An' well, I'm still you know, breastfeedin, so nothin's tellin me each month if I'm pregnant again or not...I guess I won't know till I get fat..."

Now, before you accuse me of being a snob! I admit that my sardonic Northeaster side was wild with glee at this hilarious exchange. But for once, I didn't judge, so much as see it almost as an anthropology experience. This is really how some people view life and love and family in our country. It flies in the face of everything I believe, but who am I to say it's wrong? That's right, I'm nobody.

But come on folks...belief system or not...

Get FIXED?

So this is one sugarbabyhoneypie sayin' good night y'all (singular or plural), good luck, god bless, and if you're not gonna get fixed, at least use some damn precautionaries!

Keane Sucks

2005-10-05T11:29:00.000-05:00

But it was a Beautiful Day anyway.

It made me think though. Which are you? Are you Keane? Or are you U2?

Are you a band that sounds like a rip off of another band? A rip off of a rip off of Coldplay? Are you writing lame songs about stupid girls that don't mean anything? Are you uncreative, uninspiring, and just plain bland?

Or are you U2? Do you have something to say? Are you coming up with groundbreaking music that has a point, a meaning, a life beyond angsty teenagers?

What do you stand for? Or do you stand at all? Do you stand up and cheer when a song that sounds like every other song about every other broken heart comes on? Or do you stand and cheer when someone says something observant and meaningful? Are you whining about your life, or speaking out about making everybody else's life better?

Think about it. A band that dates back to Bloody Sunday writing about everything from war and poverty to cancer and AIDS in Africa. Versus a band that was in diapers when Bono and the Edge first came up with those unforgettable riffs that begin Where The Streets Have No Name. A band that make you think, cheer, and raise your voice in song with a purpose. Versus a band talking about "somewhere only we know". Well I don't care who "we" is, and I think it's dumb to write a song about something that only two people can be a part of. I prefer the universal themes, the thought provoking messages, and the fact that it's backed by a beat you can dance to and lyrics that 35,000 people all can sing at once.

Don't stand up and cheer for lameass love songs. Stand up and cheer for human rights, a cure for cancer, ending poverty in Africa. Stant up and sing for an end to civil war in Northern Ireland, in Iraq, in Libya. Stand up and scream for a beautiful day.

And remember.

Keane sucks.

2005-10-04T11:52:00.000-05:00

I'm in a hurry lately. All the time. And as the song goes, I don't know why. I don't actually have anything terribly pressing on my plate. I actually took this semester off from grad school to recover from how hectic things were this summer for me.

There isn't any immediacy in my life these days. Nothing really has to get done RIGHT NOW. But my laundry list of things that just have to get done in general keeps getting longer and longer. And I think it's really starting to weigh on me, because I am in a hurry lately to get everything done. Every little thing in my day is some huge deal, some big rush, something that just can't wait. Is that realistic? No. Should I stop? Sure.

I mean really...does it matter if my white socks get washed today or tomorrow? No, or course not. I have other socks. Does it really matter if I get all my photos scrapbooked from the past 5 years? Of course not. Obviously I haven't been in a rush to do it in the past 5 years, why now do I suddenly have a pressing urge to complete?

So why? Why am I rushing and rushing? Because of the sense of impending hovering over my life. I have an impending wedding to plan. Sure, I have time. But I know it's a finite amount of time, and I'm scared to NOT be in a rush. It's the same with grad school. Sure, I can take my time with it. I could get my masters in 5 years if I wanted to stretch it out. But there are so many things riding on it that I can't. Again, the sense of impending. I have to get it done. Sooner rather than later.

And so this thinking pervades everything from when I do my banking to when I make my sandwiches, to when my pink underwear gets washed. I'm in a hurry hurry hurry. Rush rush rush.

I need a white sandy beach. A cocktail. And a bonfire containing my day planner.

But I'd settle for a personal assistant.

No?

It's Different

2005-09-14T22:19:00.000-05:00

"It's shaping up to be a beautiful day here in Boston, a bit hazy and humid, but with a light breeze and a high of 85."

You'd think I'd be ecstatic. And at times I would be. But not today. Not today because I had to work. Not today because it's not a real summer day, it's an indian summer day. Not today because the bloom is off that rose.

It's amazing what the first 80 degree day after Memorial Day does to you. It lifts you up like nothing else can. That first 80 degree day is full of sentimentality and yet full of promise. That first day is summed up by Jimmy and by Kenny. It's a promise of days of beaches, boats, burgers and beer. It's the promise of places where no shoes and no shirt really are no problem.

Nothing is different today than from that first day. On that first day I still have a whole summer full of work ahead of me, just like I have work right now in the fall. Monday through Friday are still expected to be days of lessons and walks and responsibility. But that promise is in the air, thick like the humidity that hangs over the Pru. With that promise you're buoyed past the 7-3 into the daydream of being on the beach Friday by 7. You're carried above the rat race of your day to day with your life raft of barbecues, sunscreen, and volleyball.

But with everything else in life if that promise lasted forever we wouldn't value it. If there was another idyllic weekend waiting for us every week, it wouldn't be idyllic anymore. And so with Labor Day comes the end of the 80 degree promise.

On a day like today it's different. It's nature's taunt of one last day you wish you could be on the beach but know you can't. It's one last day where you desperately bare your arms to the sun during lunch hours even though you know your tan is fading. It's one last day where you convince yourself you've caught a whiff of Banana Boat on the air.

But at the end of the day, even with your windows down, and your Guns and Roses up high, there's a chill in the air. It's another promise, but it's a promise of other things. Other things that don't sweep you away in white sand daydreams. Other things that don't quite seem full of Sam Adams promise. Other things that don't include Bob Marley on the radio and burgers on the grill. That chill in the air is a promise. But it's different.

It's Over

2005-09-06T18:04:00.000-05:00

So they say every ending is a new beginning. Those people are full of crap. Every ending is just that. An ending. Sure, something else will follow it, but before the new beginning is an ending. Something is over. And the people who call it a beginning are a bunch of crap optimists who prefer to live in a fantasy land of all new beginnings instead of properly mourning that which has ended. It's denial, nothing more, nothing less.

Call me a dweller, but I prefer to be sad about my endings.

For instance, my summer came to a close yesterday. Yeah, sure there will be a few more weekend days that are warm enough for the beach. There will be a couple more volleyball games and nights of grilling, but for the most part, summer is over.
And yes, summer being over means fall is technically beginning. But to look to fall already wouldn't be doing my summer justice.

Looking to fall would be ignoring the times I spent with my family, watching nephews learn new words, learn to walk on the beach, learn all of our names. Looking to fall would be ignoring the bonds I've strengthened with my cousins, returning from far flung relating to true friend. Looking to fall would be ignoring my volleyball bruises and the days of sun, beer, and the bump set and spike of summer.

So while I may be planning apple picking and foliage trips, while I may be planning for what is about to begin, I'm also going to take some time and be sad that my summer is closing out.

I'm a realist. And an end is just that. The end. It's over. So I'm happy it happened, sad that it's over, and sometime next week I'll start looking forward. Even though I know all that will end too.

Routine

2005-08-30T13:30:00.000-05:00

I want a routine. I want to know what I'm doing next week and that it will be mostly similar to what I did this week. I want to know that the people who are intricately involved in my life will somehow fit into that routine as well.

I want to know that my family dinners on Sunday which have become mostly routine will actually eventually become routine. That they won't be spoiled by one of my father's alcoholic displays. That on or off the wagon won't be a deciding factor in how dinner plays out, or if dinner occurs at all.

I want to know that I'll go to work at the same time and get out at the same time, and go to school at the same time and get out at the same time. I want to know that all my plans won't have to go haywire because of a meeting that put off all our other meetings and I won't get out until hours after I planned. I want to know that professors won't show up late and hold class late even though it was their fault.

I want to know that the army will only take my fiancee away for 3 days at a time for 6 months. I want to know that this deployment won't ruin all the plans we made for this fall. I want to know that we will still go apple picking, and to my sister's wedding, and that he'll be able to go through paramedic school.

I want to be able to plan again, without anxiety about the plans themselves.

But I can't.

Because my father's an alcoholic who continues to chose an amber liquid with it's brief respite from the reality of his tortured past over his family, his children, and their reality of carrying his future.

Because I chose an unpredictable job that though it is rewarding, is also rife with things that "just came up".

Because my friends and family have their own unpredicatble lives, and as one friend put it, some friends are forgetful, some are thoughtless on occasion, some are careless, and some are honest but simply overbooked.

Because professors are often entitled jerks who don't care that I have to do their homework and my real work and still be up to be at work at 7:30.

Because the army simply doesn't care about me until I'm legally a spouse, and even then treats any and all family as something that can be bought off.

You can't always get what you want. But I really wish I could plan enough to know what I wanted...

Chicks before...well...you know...

2005-08-25T13:54:00.000-05:00

Call me self-righteous. Go ahead. Call me selfish even. I couldn't care less.

I decided to embark on a journey this year unlike any I have ever experienced before. I was inspired by a friend to do something that would actually make a difference in the world, albeit a small and personal one.

I decided to run an endurance event for charity. I was inspired by a friend who had just finished a similar experience, and by a friend who inspired my choice of charity.

Don't get me wrong, I have run endurance events before. My 5K may not be a beautiful thing, but when it comes to multiple event sports, I'm no spring chicken, and I love it. But this one is different. This one is more important to me than pretty much anything else I've ever done.

As part of this experience I have gotten up early every saturday morning to train, trained 3-4 times a week otherwise; gone to countless businesses, friends, family friends, and perfect strangers to fundraise; done events with the team where we all got tested for our bone-marrow type, blood type, and stem-cell type; visited some of the other honored teammates (people battling various blood cancers) in the hospital with the team; and otherwise truly dedicated myself to something more so than I ever have before.

And what did I ask of people? To donate if they could, and to keep the date of Sept. 4th free.

You can imagine my shock this morning to find that two friends decided camping with their new boy-toys was more important.

You know what? The excuses don't fly this time. These are the same people who gave me shit for not going out on Friday nights all spring and summer (which I didn't because of training the next morning). These are the same people who bailed on the last event that was important to me (in honor of a very dear friend who passed away). These are the same people who railed me for missing a party because I was (oh, how shameful) in grad school. These are the same people who get self-righteous on others all the time telling me I'm being a selfish c***. Well let me tell ya something. This is the most unselfish thing I have ever done. And I hardly think that asking people who purport to care about me to be there is being selfish.

I hardly think my indignation is misplaced that these people picked camping with guys that have been in their lives for months over a girl who has supposedly been their friend for over a year. I hardly think my indignation is misplaced when I asked for this date to be reserved in May, June, and 2 weeks ago, and they made these plans last night. I hardly think my indignation is misplaced when another friend who couldn't make it apologized profusely and these friends not only don't think I deserve an apology, but think I'm overreacting. I hardly think calling me names, and telling me I'm wrong, and that they have every right to do whatever the hell they want with their last precious weekend of summer is right. You've had the entire summer to do whatever you wanted with. One of them even just got BACK from a camping trip. I ask for 3 hours of one day of this entire summer, and I'M the selfish one.

Oh sure.

So much for chicks before, well, you know.

I hope these same accusers and bailers realize that the next time they need a friend, this will not be the place to turn.

Oh, and did I mention that I INTRODUCED one of the couples that are now bailing out. Yeah. Tell me how much I'm happy about THAT one.

P.S. This blog will NOT be open to comments.

Vacation

2005-08-23T15:32:00.000-05:00

"Vacation all I ever wanted, vacation time to get away"

Only sometimes getting away isn't all it's cracked up to be. A friend of mine just returned from a trip to Maine replete with annoying campsite "neighbors", missing her morning coffee, and other irritants. Granted, she still had a lovely time, but it wasn't without aggravation.

My vacation got off to an interesting start. It began with a few days on the cape the stuff that brochures are made of. We had an evening of chatting animatedly with family in my cousins brand new Inn, with late pizza, good beer, and better company. It continued with a late morning full breakfast, day on the beach full of volleyball, drinks, and sun time, and a night of beach barbecuing, including fresh striper caught 20 minutes before we ate it.

But then it derailed a bit. My monday was full of annoying mundane errands, and the best hours of the day were lost to business hours at various places I simply had to go.

Today when I woke up I pondered what to do with my freedom. I wanted to go to the beach, but didn't have the time or gas money. I wanted to go to a park, but not by myself. See the problem with some vacations, especially when you're a teacher, is that not everybody else shares your vacation time. So what to do? How to create a vacation? How to get away when truly getting away isn't an option?

Improvise.

Today my vacation was a blissful escape from all things life. Today I slept in, ate a late breakfast, finished all my laundry so there would be one less thing hanging over my head, and then spent a glorious hour in a bubble bath, with an amazing book, and some jazz wafting through my fantastically empty apartment. It's incredible how easy it is to get away, when you really put your mind to it.

If I keep this up, my vacation will be the best one yet and I won't even have to leave the house.

Not What I Expected

2005-08-15T16:04:00.000-05:00

I'm engaged. And it's not what I expected.

Nothing about it has been what I expected.

I expected to be surprised a smidge... but due to a friend's well meaning but not well thought out e-mail blunder, I wasn't.

But then I thought I knew everything and I didn't expect how it actually happened. I didn't expect everything would turn out all right but it did. I didn't expect once I knew, or thought I knew that I would be one of those beaming stick-my-hand-out-at-everyone girls...but for a day or two I really was.

I did not expect to get proposed to on the field at Fenway Park. Behind home plate no less! I did not really expect that my friends who were at the game would stick around to see it, nor that they would celebrate with us afterward. I did not expect that my family blood and otherwise would wait up till midnight to celebrate with us as well.

I did not expect word to travel as quickly as it did around my co-workers, but it did.

I didn't expect to find that all my girlfriends were bitching about bridezillas and how much they suck the next day, but they were...and with that I didn't expect that I wouldn't want to tell my girlfriends about it the next day, but for a while there, I didn't.

I didn't expect that the first time we all went out afterward I'd be across a table from two women still in my age "box" to be discussing how much marriage sucks and cheers-ing to divorce...but I was.

I didn't expect engagement gifts from my family that had been purchased before my engagement, but there they were.

I didn't expect I'd ever take the ring off again, but I have, because I'm paranoid and I don't want it to touch walden water. Or dishwater. Or shower water. I think I'll get over that in time. Maybe not.

I didn't expect that I wouldn't know what to write for an entire week after my engagement. But I didn't. I had no clue for seven whole days of what to write, or how to write it. Maybe it's just too big. Or maybe it's just...

Not what I expected.

Not in a bad way...well, mostly not in a bad way..certainly I'm happy! Ecstatic most of the time, a little in shock sometimes, nervous sometimes, anxious sometimes, giddy sometimes. But above everything else this experience has been....it's been...

Not what I expected.

Fam

2005-08-07T12:44:00.000-05:00

I haven't been spending very much weekend time with my girlfriends this summer. I hope they don't mind, but I don't really know. I don't really know, because I don't really care.

Don't get me wrong. I have the most amazing, wonderful, loving and supportive group of girlfriends, and I love them with all my heart.

But when I was deciding to move back to Boston, it was not the prospect of potentially fabulous girlfriends that drew me back. It was the prospect of having more time to spend with my family.

The summer all of my family, both on my mother's side and on my father's side, have convened on their respective beaches on the Cape. And yesterday it really hit home why I'm here, and why I have no regrets this summer that my life wasn't so much fabulous, but mostly famtastic.

It hit 5:30 in the afternoon and we were the last ones on the beach. Literally the last ones, the beach had long since emptied of any of the other families that had occupied it all day. And yet, it certainly didn't look empty. Just odd that 20 people had congregated in one group. One circle soaking up the last rays of one of the last days of summer on Old Mill Point. There were my aunt and uncle. My mom and boyfriend. My uncle's sisters Kate and Beth, and Beth's 2 daughters, my friends from high school. One daughter married last week and her husband. My aunt's daughter, my cousin Kim and her son Jack who was of course the focus of the group, as he is 2 and hilarious. There were the family friends from years of summers on the Point. All chatting and laughing, drinking and eating and joking. All enjoying watching the wonder of a 2 year old.

Jack doesn't know it yet, but he was surrounded by exactly the reason I came home. He was surrounded by more love and affection, more history and connection than imaginable. He was surrounded by people who will remember everything he's done. They will remember first words, first steps. They will remember his favorite toys from year to year, and when he first decided to go into the ocean. They will tell him the stories of all his cousins' summers, all his aunts and uncles' summers. They will tell him who has lived in all the houses, and who has done all the craziest things from year to year. He will be able to watch himself grow up in photographs taken by people who loved him at weddings, picnics, and just days at home.

I missed that when I lived in California. I felt lonely and left out knowing my mom and her friends and sisters were getting together and talking about all our lives. I didn't want to miss my cousins having kids and watching them all grow up. I didn't want to miss any more.

And so as much as I love my girlfriends and nights out in the city, I didn't move back here for bars. I moved back here for my family.

And that's what my summer weekends are for.

Surprised?

2005-08-04T18:16:00.000-05:00

I don't like surprises. At all. I'm just not one of those girls. I need to plan plan plan everything. And often my need to plan prohibits surprises because I already have each week booked before anybody can surprise me with different plans. So here it is. If somebody actually manages to sneak a surprise past me, I always, whether I mean to or not, pester them until they tell me what the surprise is going to be. I do it with presents, I do it with plans. I ask and ask and ask, because I simply can't handle not knowing what is going on. And then I find out, because the other person caves. And then I feel bad. Because usually it is a good surprise. And I wish I hadn't asked, because I would have been surprised and it would have been nice. And because I've made the other person feel bad by ruining their surprise. But if I don't ruin the surprise before it starts, or before it comes to fruition, I manage to ruin it in the end. Somebody actually does manage to surprise me and I react the wrong way. I get annoyed at them for hiding something for me. I get angry at being caught off gaurd. I get upset because I made other plans.

So surprises just don't work for me. And I got lucky enough to meet a man who can appreciate that. He's helping me to accept surprises bit by bit with notes on my windshield, or a pack of twizzlers for my road trip. He's been surprising me with candles and a bath drawn after a run, and with dinner already planned out on a night we're staying in. But he also appreciates how I don't deal well with surprises. So he lets me in on the big stuff. He keeps me in the loop with most things especially the big decisions.

But the best thing he does is he lets me pretend to be surprised. He hints at what may be coming up, but he never fully discloses. He makes me aware of what is going on so I'm not caught off gaurd, but he keeps just enough details to himself so that I'll be able to be a little surprised.

It's perfect.

Until your friends forget to leave you off the e-mail list. About the biggest surprise of all.

But I love them anyway. Cause someday, years from now, I'll laugh. About surprises, and how I react...and about the surprise I got today in my inbox.

music

2005-07-10T17:09:00.000-05:00

where were you when you first heard Like A Prayer? Where were you when you first sang along? Were you the girl in plastic bracelets singing into her hairbrush? Were you a littler girl watching her older sister do so? Were you perhaps a college sorority girl singing it along in the car with your sisters? Were you at a middle school dance singing it out at the top of your lungs with all your other prepubescent girlfriends?

Or maybe you were the boy. Maybe you were the boy lusting after one of the middle school girls, dying to ask her out. Maybe you were the older brother wishing your sister would stop singing into her hairbrush. Maybe you were a boyfriend grinning and bearing it as your girlfriend turned it up in your car.

And then you were like me. You signed online a few days ago and decided to watch some of the performances livecast all over the internet. You watched U2 and thought about your first U2 concert. Or of your first camping trip in Joshua Tree. You watched Green Day and remembered being an angsty high school student.

Because beyond spreading a message, that's the power of music. It recalls so many different times of your life all at once. It's vivid and powerful, and reminiscent. As Kenny Chesney sings, music is what causes you to
"Go back...I go back..I go back to watching summer fade to fall, growing up to fast and I do recall, wishing time would stop right in its' tracks, everytime I hear that song...I go back.."

And that's just it. We can never really get those moments of our life back. But we can go back for a moment. We can watch, or listen, or hum. And go back. To our bedrooms, middle school dances, boyfriends cars, and sorority houses.

Just like a prayer.

American Baby

2005-07-09T14:33:00.000-05:00

For a few minutes this morning the world was quiet. I put my head down (not in the sand, mind you) held my breath, and made the world disappear. Quiet. Calm. Strong, silent strokes through cold cold water, each one taking me further away from shore, further away from reality, further away from my life, further away from the world.

But just like running, you can't stay out there forever. You can't dive under your problems. You can dive under pressure, stress, your job, your family. You can't even dive under the cancer you're training to help fight. You can't stay with your head in the water drowning out that which you'd avoid.

That is unless you're George Bush. I came home today to a very chill afternoon where I decided I'd check out some more footage of Live8. I thought I'd see what my favorite musicians had to say on stage, to see who did it for their own exposure, and who did it to expose poverty, hunger, and the AIDS epidemic. I am pleasantly surprised. A majority of artists made mention of the cause, made mention of the importance of being heard when all of 8 men were deciding the fate of third world nations, and AIDS children everywhere.

And yet at the same time I was reading the news. The news that the United States couldn't even commit a tenth of ONE percent, let alone the ONE percent that is so desperately needed. I was reading that the United States couldn't make any concessions to curb the vast deterioration of the atmosphere.

I'm confused. I signed the ONE petition (www.one.org). I do my research. I donated to MPH (Make Poverty History at www.makepovertyhistory.org). And millions of other Americans have done so as well.

A million American babies raised their voices in Philadelphia. A million American babies have signed their names in support of aid to Africa. A million American babies believing we need to support third world countries in their development.

But no amount of Dave Matthews is apparently going to make a change. No American Babies singing along with Bono about being One will make a difference.

Because there is only ONE voice for America these days. And he's not listening. Not to the voices, not to the music, not to the reason of 7 other nations' leaders.

I want to go back to hiding my head. I want to go back to this morning and make the whole world quiet again. Because you don't feel bad about not being heard when everything's quiet. Then there's no one to blame but yourself.

Whoops

2005-06-29T06:23:00.000-05:00

"The American people are behind you." (President Bush to American families in the military.)

Isn't it a little odd to have someone who no longer has the support of the Americans telling someone else that they do? I know Bush can't write a clear sentence, or speak one either, but clearly he can see the numbers. In the past years at least the man has been smart enough to have smart people surrounding him, making up the difference. But recently even his best are making silly mistakes.

Cheney says we're in the "last throes" of the war a week before Bush gave last night's speech about how it's not over and we will "stay the course" as long as neccessary. Whoops.

Halliburton gets caught charging 45 dollars a case for....no, not ammunition....no, not kevlar...no, not building materials....but soda. Soda. Whoops.

And Bush. A man who must at least be able to understand percentages, a man who must be able to see that even his own Republicans don't agree with "staying the course", a man who has lost any and all majorities he once had anywhere, is still interrupting my tv time to tell me that his plan is working and he's going to stick with it.

From a base in North Carolina. The state with the second highest number of casualties from his war. That is apparently still working great in his mind. Even though it's not in the minds of almost everybody else. Including the people in his own damn audience.

Whoops.

2005-06-15T16:41:00.000-05:00

There's a book about the Vietnam War called The Things They Carried. It describes a unit of soldiers entirely by what was in their rucks. It's an amazing story, whether you understand the military or not.

The things we say are different from the things we carry. The things we say very often are not descriptive of us, but in fact, just the opposite. The things we say are designed to hide who we are, or how we feel. The things we say are what we want to be, or think or feel. But very rarely are they true.

The things we say in anger more than anything else. In anger we will say anything, in hurt we will say too much. We will say things we wish we could believe, things we wish we could do. "I hate you" doesn't mean just that. I hate you means I hate that you hurt me, and I hate that I can't be angry at you, and I hate that you have the power to make me feel this way, and I hate that I can't make you feel this way back. I hate you isn't even about the other person. It's about us.

We tell people we threw away their stuff. We burned their photographs. We didn't really. We wish we could. And we want them to think we did. We want people to think we have the power to cut them off when they hurt us. But again, these are only things we say.

Because we don't really hate them. And we don't really throw their memories away. We put them away. Sometimes forever, because it's just too painful to relive. But sometimes we bring them back out. Sometimes we realize that there's just too much missing. Sometimes we realize that we didn't mean the things we said. And we realize that the things we carry are more important.

A photograph. A chain. A letter. Evidence that we have within us the power to forgive. The power to move on. The power to remember, no matter how painful, or seemingly pointless. And sometimes the things we carry lead us back to the things we said. And the people we said them too.

And sometimes we pick back up. And have something new to carry. Or something that fits right were it was before. A photograph in a helmet. A tattered letter in a ruck. And a teddy bear on a shelf. A hole filled in on this march we all wish we weren't figuring out alone.

I wrote once about people throwing me away. It has happened, and it hurts. But as much as there are things I say, I can't do the same myself. I see all those doors people shut in my face as open on my side. And today someone knocked. I don't know what will happen, but I told the truth about the things I said, and the things I still carried.

It's not an easy march we are on. There are snipers in the woods, and the path isn't always clear. We will not finish the journey with the same people we began. But before you judge a person by the things they have said, ask them what they still carry.

You might be surprised.

Friends

2005-05-31T21:41:00.000-05:00

I was told two things by a very wise woman today.

One was, your friends are supposed to make your life better, sweeter. If they're not, take it with a grain of salt, walk away, and wait until they do again.

The second was, the only person you have to be accountable to is yourself. So what about what other people think of you? What YOU think of you is the only thing that counts in the end. And if you're happy with that, then go with it. They'll either come around, or they're not good friends.

Lately I've been down. REALLY down. As in so down I had my first real fight with my boyfriend over nothing. A knock down drag out screaming match. Over nothing. Just pure stress relief directed at the one person who could take it and would most likely still love me. And it only made me feel worse. About life, about myself, about everything.

Sometimes you just get down. Life is just too overwhelming, too much to crawl out from under. And sometimes it happens right when things should be going right. Or even are going right. Sometimes success brings even more pressure than failure, and on occasion that pressure, coupled with other outside forces can just be crippling. That has been my life.

I love my new job. But the work load has increased by leaps and bounds, as has my personal attachment and involvement in the work I'm doing, and in the lives of the students I'm working with. As well, I'm still in the probation period, which is a huge stress factor. Add to that working on my masters, family issues, and the obnoxious allergy season we're having, and I just shorted out. I blew all my fuses at once and couldn't seem to find my way back to my inner fusebox. And so I just stayed shorted out. I stayed in on my couch. I only left the house to excercise and when Paul officially dragged me out. And I did a lot of thinking. I take a lot to get myself back on track, and I know it.

This is the time when your friends should be there for you. Instead I felt put on the spot because I wasn't around enough. I wasn't being "fun" enough. More pressure when what I needed was a release.

But I have a wise woman to vent to. And a great memory for movie quotes. So as What About Bob would say, "This person has a busy signal right now. I'll just hang up and try again later." I'll take both sets of advice. I'm gonna hang up for some time. And think. And wait until everything is a bit sweeter.

Disclaimer

2005-05-31T21:35:00.000-05:00

I'm only human. I have bad days like everyone else. I have self absorbed days like everyone else. The only difference from everyone else is that I'm also a writer. And some of the best material comes from some of the worst of human traits. So whether I'm ranting on Bush, or whining about my lack of ab definition, I put it all out here. But like the disclaimer I wrote in the early days of this blog, what I write is the tiniest snippet of myself. It is a capture of a brief moment of emotion. It is one ingredient in the recipe of a complex woman. And as such I request again that nothing read in here be held against me. What I write and post may be a rant that I have forgotten in minutes, but save to go back to. Who knows what story or essay will come from it someday?

Yes, it's personal, but then again it's not. How personal can you get on the written page? You lack the subtle tones of a voice, and the subtle expressions of a face. Things can be taken very out of context. That's the risk I take in putting myself out here. But it's a risk I take while respectfully requesting that those who read grant me two concessions. One is to take everything here with a grain of salt, as you would anyone. The other is not to use something posted here as evidence as to what kind of person I am, or as evidence in some rant against me. If you know me and you have a problem with me, take it up with me. But don't use my own writing against me. I take enough risk with this without petty people throwing my bared soul in my face.

Getting older

2005-05-30T12:43:00.000-05:00

I remember the first cigarrette lighter I ever bought. Which is more interesting than you'd think, considering I abhor smoking, smokers, and anything even remotely ciggarette related. But I remember that day like nothing else. I was going to my first U2 concert with my friend Ginna, and dammit, I was going to have a lighter to hold up like everybody else did at rock concerts. I was so excited.

I remember holding it up when they played One, and holding it up when they played With or Without you. I remember how cool it looked to see hundreds of flecks of lights all around the old Foxboro Stadium as thousands of fans broke out their lighters too. I will never forget how it felt to be part of a surreal community that would only last the duration of this show. People singing and lighting up together united in some strange way by words we all knew; people who would be strangers again when the lights came back up.

I still have that lighter, and was planning on bringing it to the U2 show I saw on Thursday. I forgot it at the last minute, and I was so upset until the show started. And instead of hundreds of tiny flames, the crowd was dotted with hundreds of blue and green LCD displays. Because didn't you know? Nobody brings lighters anymore, they just hold up their cell phones. You can't smoke inside anyway, and more people have cell phones than lighters now.

When I went to that first concert, cell phones were things that came in super expensive cars, like BMW's, or Mercedes. And if you were really lucky, your parents might have a huge clunky grey motorola "flip phone" that you could brag to your friends about. We didn't get one until years after that U2 concert. And my mom kept it safely hidden under the drivers' seat. Oh how things have changed. Now everybody has a cell phone, and has no problem waving their electronic leash proudly in the air.

And sadly, so did I.

At the Garden that isn't the Garden from my childhood. Missing the lighter I brought to a Foxboro that's been torn down for several years. Holding on to the leash I have just like everybody else.

I'm getting old.

I'll cry if I want to

2005-05-25T14:48:00.000-05:00

Okay...so this is a totally self involved post. Not that this whole blog isn't self serving and self involved. But this is going to be particularly so. So if that annoys you, come back some other time when I feel like being deep and meaningful.

So my birthday is coming up. In a little over 2 weeks, to be exact. Now, my birthday has not always been the most splendiforous of days in the past. There was the time my father got drunk and forgot. There was the time my boyfriend at the time forgot not only my birthday, but that he had a girlfriend at all. I'll let your imagination fill in those blanks. And they have always been a painful reminder of how few people I have close enough to me to care that I was born, on that day, however many years ago.

And yet I still let myself hope. I'm still foolish enough to believe every year that people will remember and care. But then it comes down to the wire. And I start to torture myself. And this year is no exception.

This year's birthday disaster began about a week ago when I found out that my boyfriend will miss my birthday because he will be on military drill. Not only will he not be here, he also may not even be able to call me. No happy birthday from him. And so it began. No boyfriend, who else would forget? Will my brother remember? He chooses on and off whether or not he likes me, so that's iffy. Will my father be sober enough to remember this year? And now my friends. I love my friends dearly, and we are all very much there for each other. I don't have the only June birthday, so lately e-mails have been circulating. "What shall we get B for her birthday?" "What should we do for T?" In these e-mails we leave the birthday girl in question off the recipient list.

And so I sit here wondering. Has anybody remembered to start an e-mail about me? Have they and I just am not getting it as I'm the person in question? Or have they forgotten.

Will this be another lonely passage of another so-so year? And should I allow myself to hope it won't be?

I give

2005-05-16T21:48:00.000-05:00

Okay. You got me. I admit it.

I, the self avowed, non-consumer-driven woman have become a consumer whore. I am. I have.

I

Want

An

Ipod.

I want one. I do! I really really really really want an ipod. A pretty blue ipod. With cute white headphones and space for all my music. Space for all my music and the gaurantee that it won't skip! It won't skip when I'm running, or jumping, or walking, or doing the damned dishes. I want an ipod with all my favorite playlists of all my lame music. I want Kenney Chesney and Toto to be rocking together in the happy little world that all those other smug ipoders are living in. I want to be a smug ipoder!

And it's driving me nuts. I've survived this long without one, I should be able to just go on burning mp3 cd's and listening to them in my car and on my discman. I shouldn't want something so ridiculously overpriced, overmarketed, overvalued. I don't NEED an ipod. I also don't necessarily need that extra cute white sweatshirt I bought yesterday mostly because of my boyfriend's reaction. Hey, every girl needs an ego boost. But there's a big difference between a 12 dollar sweatshirt and an almost 200 dollar thingamajig that would play all my music.

Yes. All my music. Without skips. Or stops. Or bumps. All my music however I want it organized. However and whenever I want it. In a tiny, pretty blue piece of plastic that would so easily attach to my forearm, or belt loop, or fit in my purse if I ever carried one.

And so I have to consider. Is it REALLY worth it? With the amount of effect that music has on my life I almost tend to think so. And really, most comparable players out there don't cost that much less, and aren't as time tested.

As my beautiful little blue ipod.

That I want.

So bad.

Dear god I annoy myself sometimes.

Do ipods ever go on sale?

Somewhere in Between

2005-05-15T10:18:00.000-05:00

I'm a little bit stuck these days. I can't quite seem to find my mass media niche. I'm not Carrie, but contrary to popular belief, I am NOT yet quite a Charlotte. In fact, I'm not even really Sex In The City anymore, but I am certainly not Crossing Jordan anytime soon.
I don't belong to the MTV nation, but I'm not ready to be a lifetime lady.
I'm not Oldies 103.3, but lately WBCN seems a little...well...loud.

More than anything, I'm not a Cosmo girl anymore so much, but I'm not a Good Housekeeping woman yet.

Where does my demographic belong? What IS my demographic for that matter? I used to love cosmo. Still do for the scandalous stories, and the latest fashions I can't afford, and the occasional make-up tip that I somehow manage to pull off without stabbing myself in the eye. But I don't need their advice on how to nab a man. And their advice for women WITH a man? Come on. I decided to get into my relationship because he made me happy and complimented me well. Why on earth would I need advice on how to "Make him fit you perfectly", "Tricky Ways To Make Sure He Listens", or "How to Keep Him Interested"? He does fit me pretty damn well, and as the song goes, "and I'm so glad that he isn't (perfect), cause how boring would that be?" If he's not listening, why not just wait till he is, and if he's not interested, well then maybe if we ever reach that point it will be time to call it quits.

I am a woman who loves someone. And it works. And I like cooking dinners at home and I like renting videos, and I like doing laundry together, and I like going for walks. And I am also a woman who loves a good champagne martini, and a hot cocktail dress, and my girlfriends, and a sweaty dancefloor, and a good pair of stillettos.

Where's my magazine? Where's my tv show? Where's my radio station? Is there anyone else in my demographic? Please don't tell me I'm in this alone...

bread

2005-05-09T21:24:00.000-05:00

So it often seems that I'm a little bipolar. I swing from passages about life and love and happiness and dedication to family and friends, to passages about things that piss me off.

Bet you like those nice ones.

Not today.

Today I'm pissed

A little over a week ago I was volunteering on the walk for hunger. The walk for hunger is an annual fundraising event for Project Bread, an organization that helps fund and support local shelters and food pantries in the Boston area. It is an amazing organization that does great work for those less fortunate in my region. And during my volunteer time, I was working on a corner of the race helping direct the flow of foot traffic in coordination with the state trooper who was direction vehicular traffic. And I was also in charge of the garbage can. And get this-
People were throwing away food.
On the walk for hunger.
People were throwing away food.
And not just smidgens of chips left over in a bag. No, not the last crumbs of a granola bar either. They were throwing away whole containers of french fries. Whole bags of unopened pretzels.

And it's that attitude that results in so many hungry folk across this region, and this nation. It's that idea that you can just throw away food you don't want. That you can order a huge portion of food when you're not even hungry and just toss what you don't eat. It's the lack of thought about other people, as your mom used to say, "starving in Africa", that results in people being hungry in the first place.

Don't get me wrong. I have been guilty of tossing half a plate of spaghetti on occasion because my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I don't always eat all my leftovers either.

But in the middle of a charity event? For hunger?! Come on.

Get up, stand up, and run, bike and swim.

2005-05-02T21:51:00.000-05:00

When you're my age, cancer has a degree of separation. When you're my age, people with cancer are co-workers, friends of your parents, or aunts, or uncles. When you're my age, cancer is something you read about, and hear about. And then one day it's not. Then one day cancer is right there in front of you, staring back at you over drinks in your best friend's eyes. Then one day you can't know enough about cancer. You can't stop researching. You can't stop asking. You can't stop helping.

I knew what cancer was. I had experience with it. But it was distant. It was always someone else. Until it was my friend Katie. Until it was someone who means the world to me. And suddenly I stopped flipping the radio stations when advertisements for Cancer Walks, and Cancer Runs came on. I used to skip the pleas from Susan G. Komen and Avon, in favor of Maroon5 and U2. And then I started listening. And wondering. "Now that it's my best friend, what can I do?"

The answer came quickly. I've done runs and walks for cancer and MS, and AIDS, and Hunger. Last year for the first time I completed a triathlon whose proceeds benefited breast cancer research. And a few weeks ago in the mail I had a letter from the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society with the opportunity to compete with their Team In Training. I was presented with the opportunity not only to do something wonderful, but to do it for a purpose. I am running the Boston Triathlon in honor of my friend Katie, and with Team In Training, I am raising 2,500 for Leukemia and Lymphoma Research.

Because if Katie can battle cancer with a grace, strength, and sense of pride not known to many, the least I can do is raise money that will help make her struggle-and the struggle of many with Leukemia and Lymphoma- a little bit easier, a little bit more comfortable, a little bit better researched, and in the end a little bit faster.

74% of the proceeds I raise will go directly to Leukemia and Lymphoma research and patient treatment and services. The rest goes to help Team In Training continue its wonderful programs of fundraising through marathons, triathlons, runs, and walks.

Cancer may still be a degree of separation away from you. But it's there. It's all around us. And I hope you can find it in your heart to help support me in my fundraising goal. Because if that degree of separation ever falls away, maybe what you give today will make the difference in how long, and how hard, someone you know has to battle with cancer.

May we all have the strength, beauty and grace of my friend Katie. And may we all find it in ourselves in some way to help.

For more information on how to contribute to my fundraising, please leave a Comment with contact information, and I will get back to everybody who is willing to help.

2005-04-19T15:20:00.000-05:00

Start your day the holy way....with Christ Chex!

Man I love Dane Cook.

Comedy is a funny thing though. You never really know what is truly funny. Because what cracks me up may really be the least funny thing in the world to someone else.

Take for example today's events. At around noon, we flipped on the tv, after a phone call letting us know that a pope had been chosen and was about to be revealed. As we waited and watched we began to joke. First with the Dane Cook quote, which refers to having a big bowl of the communion wafers. Then we went on to discuss our own relationships with the church. All three of us watching are Catholics. Call it what you will, dissident Catholics, lapsed Catholics, buffet Catholics, we are what you get from kids raised in the Catholic church who have grown up and come into our own personal disagreements with the church.

And we started to think...what could really make this a turnaround event for Catholics? Cause let's face it folks, the old ladies with blue hair who sing loudly and off key each and every sunday are a dying breed. Go to a church on Sunday. Count how many people you see from younger generations who are there by choice. Not too many. The Catholic church is dying. Slowly. Painfully. And lately in the grip of scandal. So what are they going to do? What could they do to ensure that they can bring back my generation and the ones to come? How are they going to bring in a new flock?

How bout if the Pope comes out on the balcony wearing some major bling. A big iced up crucifix? Flashing the "rock on" sign?

What if the Pope got the whole "Pimp My Ride" crew from MTV to fly to Vatican City and make the Popemobile pimp?

Or maybe instead of the same lame old chanting he could get some freestyling lessons from Eminem? You know, start calling Catholics his "peeps" instead of his "flock". Da Pope is in the Vatican Citizzle, y'all hear me?

What if instead of Vestments he got new duds from a branch of P.Diddy's line? He could call it Sean John Paul the 3rd?

What about having the Swiss Gaurd don some Men In Black style suits and RayBans?

Would all the gathered faithful in St. Peter's Sq. have found our jokes funny? Decidedly not. Would they have called us heretics, blasphemous, and other such monikers? Oh hell yes. Would they have been right? No. Were we? No.

Because clothes, and bling, and rides, and other such amusing musings will not change the problem facing today's Catholics. The problem however could be solved with a visit to the MTV nation. The Catholic church is so far out of touch with it's own target audience.

We use birth control. We'd rather live our lives successfully, safely, and responsibly. We want control over the choice to start a family, and take that on with the same level of responsibility as we've shown up until then.

We miss church on Sunday. Sure, sometimes it's to sleep in after last night's bender. But sometimes it's a far worthy cause. Volunteering for the Walk For Hunger, as I will be doing in a few weeks. Running a race for charity. Volunteering for Big Brothers or Big Sisters. Sometimes there is something closer to God to be accomplished on a Sunday than sitting in a pew reciting lines that you have long since forgotten the meaning of.

We sleep together before marriage. In a time when so many people wait, and then discover that sexual incompatibility is only one of the problems that wasn't addressed before marriage, only to have it fail, I hardly see not waiting as the problem. The Catholic church wants the divorce rate to drop? Let people figure out if they truly should be married, before they pop the question just to get laid.

We have gay friends. And we do NOT believe they are going to hell just for falling in love. Love is a gift from God. We are taught that from the very beginning. And free will is a gift from God. So why is it punishable by hell that these people have used their free will to follow their genetic programming and fallen in love?

Many of my friends who have left the church are some of the best people I know. They are talented, caring, loving, smart, funny, and beautiful people. They are truly gifts from God. And they believe in God. But they do not believe they should be labeled by a papacy that has long ago lost touch with it's flock. You want to rule your sheep from afar, you go ahead. See how long they stick around. But if you want to come down into these fields, these difficult fields that we live in, maybe, just maybe, you can get back in touch. Maybe just maybe, you can find a way to understand your flock.

And maybe, just maybe...you can bring it back. Before there are no sheep left.

Stickers

2005-04-13T15:52:00.000-05:00

Let me preface this post by saying I don't care. I don't care what you think about Iraq. I don't care if you think we should be there, shouldn't be there, shouldn't have gone in the first place. I don't care why you think we are there, be it oil interests, or the protection and proliferation of freedom. Despite my occasional liberal rant, I don't care what your position on Iraq is.

But I saw something today that turned my stomach. In the back windshield of a car were two bumper stickers. One was a Bush/Cheney '04 sticker. The other said "Support Our Troops".

Now I am all about supporting our troops. Considering many of my friends have been over there, are still over there, or will potentially go there, of course I want to support them.

And frankly, I'm over the whole Bush getting re-elected thing. He's president now, the red states are full of stupid right wing born-again Christian sheep. That's life for the next four years and I just have to deal with it.

But tell me how in God's (or anybody else's) name you can conscionably sport those two stickers together. Bush has made an art form of NOT supporting our troops! His administration has left troops without body armor, without armored vehicles, without enough food, without enough ammunition. Bush's administration has done anything but support our troops.

It's like the old adage. You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose. But you can't pick your friend's nose.

You can support the war. You can support Bush. Or you can support our troops. But you can't support Bush if you want to support our troops.

As Napoleon would say,

"Friggin' IDIOT".

Statute

2005-04-04T16:12:00.000-05:00

Is there a statute of limitations on the benefit of the doubt?

I'm starting to wonder if there should be.

I was chatting with a friend today. Online, because lately that's been the only way. And I suddenly felt compelled to ask some questions that have been floating around in my head for months. And it's amazing how you don't realize how much something bothers you until you're verbalizing it. Until you're asking those questions you've pushed to the back of your head with the dozer of your conscience. Questions you convince yourself you shouldn't ask, because it's not fair. Or because the other person must have their reasons, so you convince yourself you don't need to know them. Questions that you convince yourself you're not a good enough friend to deserve the answers to.

But then you ask one. And you open those damned floodgates. The why's, the how's, the whose fault's. And maybe nobody is at fault. And maybe there are good reasons. But what do you do when suddenly you realize that maybe those reasons just might not satisfy? What do you do when you question even the reasons? What do you do when you believe that there HAD to be 20 minutes somewhere in the recent past that weren't chock full of a conflicted life? What do you do when you realize maybe you should have put a limit on your benefit of the doubt?

Was it when you had been shot down for the 10th time without an offer of a raincheck? Was it when you were having a particularly bad day, but you let theirs be worse? Or more worthwhile? Was it when you had been shot down for the 20th time, without so much of a "but thanks for asking, and I'll try to make time soon"? Or was it when "I'll try to make time soon" never materialized?

I have friends who tell me you need to thin your friends the same way you thin your closet. Haven't worn it in 9 months to a year? Toss it, it's just taking up space. Haven't seen them in 9 months to a year? Toss them, make room for people who fill your life in a better way. I don't want to believe those friends have it right. I don't want to believe that you have to treat your friends like last season's stillettos. I don't want to believe that there's a time limit, or a season, or a style to friendship that can get old.

But the excuses are wearing thin, just like the soles on my old converse. And these excuses from a person who used to feel the same way about people who make excuses. And these tears running down my face that I never thought would be at the expense of this person. And this choked up feeling, and this hurt, and this sad, somewhat empty feeling. And that little mad person inside who wants the world to be fair, and friendships to be fair, and for people to give back what you give to them.

And maybe there is a limit. And maybe I'm reaching mine. And maybe I hope I'm not. But maybe I don't.

So Hard To Say Goodbye

2005-04-01T15:32:00.000-05:00

It wasn't this hard last summer...saying goodbye to all my students was almost easy. But I suppose it's because they were supposed to be going. We had prepared them well for their next grade and it was time to move on. There was closure for everybody.

Today was not like that. Today was one of the hardest days of my life. Today I was the only one leaving. And for a split second, I almost wondered if I wanted to.

Of course I want to. Of course I want this new job with more money, more support, more advocacy, more help, and more opportunity to move forward.

But today, in a few brief moments, all those things were eclipsed by something that was, for that minute, more important.

Today I started my day with kids that I have done therapy with and for, for the last two years. They wanted to know why? Why was I leaving? Why did I have to go now? Why couldn't it wait until the end of the year? Didn't I like them? Had they done something wrong? How do you answer those questions? How do you make your own desperate finances seem more important than the problems that plague 2nd and 3rd graders? How do you make career goals make sense? Their cards ran the gamut from "I will miss you and I hope you make new friends at your new school", to "I really really really wish you had not made this decision." How do you tell them that you didn't want to HAVE to make this decision? How do I tell them that I would have LOVED to have stayed with them and been there and watched them grow and learn? How do I tell them that no matter how much I wanted all that I just couldn't?

And that was all in the first 45 minutes of my day.

Then came the class. My beautiful, crazy, funny class of kids that I have seen every day for the last 125 days. And my fantastic teacher that I have worked with for longer. And I discovered that blocked in for the end of the day was time for "Good Luck Miss Synnott". And all day I was inundated with hugs, sad eyes, gifts, and well wishes. At lunch the teachers I've worked with for up to 2 years brought me flowers and a cake. It took everything I had not to cry then, only to find out that there was another cake waiting for me in the classroom. And a book that the teacher had put together with pages from each student on "Why I Will Miss Ms. Synnott". And I know all the teachers understand why I am doing this, but they were so nice and it was so hard to say goodbye. And I know the class wishes me well, but as I sat there reading all the things they will miss it was like a kick in the stomach to realize that I did matter even a little bit, and here I was, at least to them, running out on that.

At the end of the year they're ready to go and you're ready to let them go. But today they weren't ready to let me go, and a big part of me wasn't ready to go. I know I have to, and I know a part of me wants to, or else I wouldn't have applied for this job. But a big piece of me is left behind in that classroom, and just like with a relationship, it's a part of me I can't get back. I know in the end I'll be happy with each piece of myself that I left in a classroom, in the heart of a child. But this time I feel like I'm tearing a bit at those hearts too. And my own.

It's so hard to say goodbye.

out of place

2005-03-28T16:18:00.001-05:00

In our generation of bigger, faster, newer, beta versions, I'm beginning to feel entirely out of place.

There's a facility in my hometown. Call it what you will, mental institution, research hospital, insane asylum, whatever. It's an incredibly old campus filled with old and some historic buildings. It's over a hundred years old, and full of stories, and spirits, and memories of things that have been.

Well, things aren't cheap this day and age, and funding doesn't come cheap to a place like that, so finally they decided to tear some of the buildings down and develop some of the open space.

Now the town and many investors are completely psyched about this project. How the new condominiums are going to be top of the line, and bring so much to Belmont. That the developments are the best of the best, and the priciest of the pricey. So I should be happy about this, right? I should be a part of my ipod obsessed, louis vuitton lugging, next best thing generation.

But I'm not. I'm sad they are tearing down the old buildings. Those buildings have character, they tell stories, they hold history. Those buildings have stood the test of time and then some. Where will your ipod be in a hundred years? Long since in the trash bin. Where will your pre-fab condos, and concept cars be? Falling apart in some rubbish heap.

We live in an age now where people tear down old classic buildings to build new, better, old classic buildings. In an age where we want to be nostalgic, but not if we can't have our subzero fridges along with it.

I should drive up the hill and see the fences and the tractors and be excited for new developments. I should see the markers of the demolishers and think of progress. But I don't. I see a generation that has lost too much.

We have lost our sense of history. We have lost our sense of respect for our past. We have become so obsessed with new and better that we ignore old because it is just that, old. We ignore what can be learned, what can be modified, what can be updated, and instead toss it all aside.

I'll remember what it looked like. I'll remember the ghosts of those buildings, the stories they had to tell. I'll remember the way it felt, and sounded, and smelled. I'll keep it all locked away in my mind.

But will anybody turn off their ipod long enough to hear it?

Scatman

2005-03-23T16:46:00.000-05:00

Gonna take a lot to drag me away from you...there's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do....because I need a hero...I'm holding out for a hero till the morning light...and I won't stop believing...hold on to that feeling...and

How do I get you alone?

It's amazing the way certain senses link so powerfully with memory. How the tune of "Hold Me Now" can bring me back to being six and dreaming about what love was really like. How "Africa" can bring me back to long car trips to the beach in the summer with my mom. How practically every song has one or more memories indelibly linked to it. And where your mind goes from there.

Scatman. Makes me think of my best friend Betsy from High School who I don't speak to anymore, but who introduced my to a guy named joe who was in her boyfriend's frat house when she was a freshman in college and I was still a senior in High School. How I had a huge crush on Joe, and how we stayed in touch even after Betsy and I lost touch. How Joe came down to my college campus in California when I had just gotten unceremoniously dumped by Dave. Dave who lived in Walnut Creek California, which is where I moved after college and became a teacher. Walnut Creek where I used to be a ballsy chick who rode motorcycles and hung out with a bunch of Russians and Dave hated me because I "stole" all his friends. Walnut Creek where I met Sharon who became and still is one of my best friends. Sharon who I helped move almost 2 years ago, and on the way back home we went to visit Joe, so I could set her up. Which didn't happen, but it was nice to see Joe because he reminded me that I deserved better than the relationship I was in. Which is why I moved back to Boston. Where Sharon is visiting me in a few months.

I'm a scatman........

Changes

2005-03-22T15:46:00.000-05:00

I got a new job. One that will pay me more, with better benefits, and even some money for grad school. It's a job where I'll be better supported by my staff of peers, and better advocated for by my superiors. It's a job with upward mobility, and it's year-round, so I won't have to worry about finding summer work.

And I don't know if you've noticed but my job this year has NOT been a cakewalk. It has been fraught with foolish, petty disturbances caused by silly stupid parents. It has been full of frustration with a lack of staffing, a lack of respect, and a lack of energy.

And yet I'm still so sad to go. Because even with all this, the kids are wonderful. The people I work with are fantastic. And the school has become a second home for me. In my silly little mind I imagined working there for a year or two as a SpEd person, and then getting my own classroom when one of the other teachers retired. In my silly little head the DOE wasn't going to make getting my license so impossible, they were going to raise the salary for my position each year, and everything was going to work out. But that's my silly little head.

Instead I have to choose to leave, with but 62 days remaining in the school year. I have to leave a group of kids I've come to adore, and a staff who have truly become friends. I have to choose to leave a place that was like home for a new place. Because though it feels like a second home, I can't afford to build a home on my own for what they pay me.

And states wonder why they can't keep good teachers. Or get them in the first place.

In the News

2005-03-07T15:47:00.000-05:00

In the news today we can learn two very important things.

Uncle Sam Wants You. And Big Business Wants You.

But there's a loophole in both, and they're pretty damn important.

Uncle Sam wants you, but he will not equip you. It has come to pass that we Americans have learned the truth about Body Armor. Why is it that our nation took 167 days to equip all of our soldiers in Iraq with body armor, when our allies took just 47 days. Ordering directly from American companies? You see, I'm confused. Even in the dark ages, a soldier could expect armor. If you signed up to serve you country, or king, you could expect a sword, a shield, and armor. So now, even in this advanced technological age, we, the most advanced country in the world, can't do the same?

Big Business wants you too. But they don't want your opinion. Keep it to yourself. No, REALLY to yourself. Don't express your opinion, don't talk about your opinion, and for god's sake, don't publish your opinion. Blogs are the enemy. Didn't you know? Yes, that's right, companies like Delta and Google are now firing people for having blogs they do not approve of.

So go forth. Serve your country well. But don't expect to have your body, or your opinion, protected!

Whoooo Arrrre Youuuuu?

2005-02-25T16:14:00.000-05:00

Said the caterpillar to Alice. And how did she answer? I'm Alice, of course. Just like anybody would say. I'm Fitzie.

But who am I really? Who is anybody? And how much of who we are is determined on our own?

I've been pondering this today because a friend of mine is having a shitty week. We all have those, you know the weeks when you feel like your world is crashing down, and nothing is going right, and you're never going to get out from under the piles of things you have to do, and you're never going to get anywhere you want to be because of it. Yeah, you know those weeks.

Only she feels guilty about having the bad week. Well, not so much guilty that her week is going bad, but guilty that she's in a bad mood because of it. Well...wouldn't you be in a bad mood? I'd be in a bad mood. But not this friend. Not this friend because she is Miss perfect, Miss happy, Miss Mom, Miss dependable, Miss always-up-for-anything.

Here's the problem. If you asked her who she was...she'd probably tell you any one of those at first. But if you asked her honestly who she was, none of those would enter her mind. Like a lot of women, she would probably say she's more Miss cluttered, Miss frustrated, Miss overthinker. But happy go lucky and perfect would not be at the top of the list.

Why do we do this? Why do we take our friends and family's ideas of who we are and try to make them fit? Why do we try to live up to what people think of us, even when we don't want to? Why do we hesitate to answer the question "How are you?" with "Crappy" even if that's the case?

My friend wrote an e-mail about how low she was feeling, and then apologized at the bottom. Apologized! And we're all guilty of it, I think. I'm having a bad day, I'm sorry. Why do we say the I'm sorry? Are we really sorry for having a bad day? I'm not actually. I just say it because I'm Miss nice, Miss ballsy, Miss there for everyone else, Miss fix it all.

Only if you ask me who I am really? I'm Miss insecure, Miss frustrated, Miss scared of everything.

Why do we do this? I don't know. Particularly when it is our girlfriends, the ones who know us best, and the ones who will understand that we do it to most. I'm no shrink, I don't know how the mind works. But I do know this. Today I'm going to take some of my own advice. I told my friend not to worry about not being Miss perfect dependability for a day. I told her to go ahead and have a shitty day, and not make excuses or apologies for herself. So the next time I have a bad day, I'm not going to either.

Going Backwards

2005-01-31T22:15:00.000-05:00

I'm happy I moved back. I am. I think. I think, because I wonder sometimes. Cause lately it feels like I'm slipping backwards, and I can't seem to climb back up a hill I thought I had already climbed.

You see, I had a place. I had a great place that I could afford. I could afford it because I was making more then I'm making now. With less of a job. So it's a dilemma. I'm closer to what I want to do, but further from having the money to continue doing it. Because I had a place, and now I live with my parents. Was it worth it? To be in a better position in my job, but a worse position in my financial standings and living situation?

I had a boyfriend. And he sucked. Big time. And now I have a better one. So that's a plus. But he works all the time now, so that he's not broke like me. So that isn't so much a plus. And just like me he's closer to the career he wants, but it means we don't spend as much time together. And when we do we're both stressed.

Because we both have to go back to school. Yes, that's right, that degree I worked so hard to earn? And the extra classes I took to teach before? Oh, they don't count here. I have to go back to school to take classes that will teach me how to pass tests. That I already passed. Making sense yet? Yeah, me neither.

Oh. And those classes? They cost money. The money that I'm not making. At the job I want. That pays less than the job I had that I didn't want. When I lived in the place. That I really liked. That I can't have now, because I live at home. Because I moved back here because I wanted to be close to my family.

Which I am. Which is good. Of course it could be better if my father didn't smoke in the house. Which makes the asthma I hadn't had in 5 years really bad. So I have the rest of my family nearby. Which makes me really happy. If only I could breathe.

One step forward, two steps back. Going backwards. I think?

Into The West

2005-01-12T21:09:00.000-05:00

“There’s a bit of traveller in all of us. Just not many know where we’re going.”

I spent this evening watching a movie that really gets me everytime. You know, the kind that doesn’t just have you crying at the end, but about 5 or 6 times in the middle, too? That’s the final line of the flick. And it’s true. But the older I get, the more I realize that while it’s important to know, or want to know where you’re going, it’s more important to know where you come from.

In this time of enemies, and axis of evil, we have become a nation alone. A nation of people so obsessed with being American, that many lose where they have come from, who they, or their ancestors, were before they were American. We all come from somewhere else, and I have begun to see that those who remember are those who have the best grasp of where they are going.

I go forth into the world armed with my funny-spelled last name, my celtic cross, and the images in my mind of the farm my grandmother grew up on in Ireland. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it. I have run on the same hills, seen the same ruins, explored the same country. In a world where so much changes, it is so precious to me to have those roots. The stone house she grew up in, 13 people in 3 rooms, still stands. Stone is so much more permanent. And even if you travel, you need to have something to come back to. A touchstone to remind you the places you’ve been, the person you where, and the roads you have traveled since.

So many people today claim cultures they know nothing about, and spend far too much time blaming others for their problems. We are unsafe because of them. We are downtrodden because of them. I know my culture, and I am who I am because of them. Sure, No Irish Need Apply is a good reminder of what some endured. But they did. So that I would have a chance not to be a victim. So I would have a chance to become whatever I could become, and to know where I am going.

And instead I want to stay right where I am. I want to stay where my roots and my culture are strong. I want to stay where I know Irish music will play once a week in so many places. I want to stay where I can hear a brogue and maybe, just maybe, talk about Kenmare. I want to stay one of the places my traveling ancestors came first.

I will also always go back. Because until you can go back, and retrace the steps it took to get you where you are, there is not point in traveling forward.

Things heard

2004-12-26T17:10:00.000-05:00

Things heard at the dinner tables of my family christmas.

"You don't eat cranberry sauce?! That's un-american!"
"So am I."

(From my aunt Madge, who is, in fact, not American)

"So my grandparents got a digital camera for Christmas. Which brings me to my conclusion that nobody over the age of sixty should own anything digital."

(My brother's girlfriend on the elderly)

"I want a mini deli slicer next year!"

"Hey, did I tell you my brother got one of those super slim new Playstations? It's like this tiny!"

"Does it cut ham?"

(My father, my brother, and his girlfriend)

I am a......

2004-12-02T15:47:00.000-05:00

You Are a Snarky Blogger!

You've got a razor sharp wit that bloggers are secretly scared of.
And that's why they read your posts as often as they can!

What kind of blogger are you?

Choking on the Most Wonderful Time

2004-11-30T21:40:00.000-05:00

Now don't get me wrong. I am not a grinch. In fact, I love Christmas. And everything about it. I love cookies and carols and trees and trimmings. I love gifts and parties and mistletoe and everything else. I do think it's the most wonderful time of the year. I am always happiest right around Christmas. Okay I admit it, whenever I'm upset during the rest of the year, I put on Christmas CD's. In July. Or May. Or whenever.

But I love Christmas because I CHOOSE to. And I love it WHEN I choose to. What I do not love, however, is commercial America attempting to shove it down my throat like Johnny Carson on crack, "Heeeeeeeeere's CHRISTMAS!!!"

I do not love red and green displays popping up on Halloween day. I do not love stupid people tuning their cellphones to play Jingle Bells on the first day of November. I do not love every other commercial entity for Holiday Sales in which nothing is really on sale, the prices are simply inflated and then slashed right before your very eyes to what was reasonable in the first place. I do not love Dunkin Donuts ads that tell me I need a new flavored latte to enjoy the season, or Old Navy ads that sing a carol about pullovers.

Consumers like me are like wet bars of soap. The more you squeeze us, the more we slip away. I started shopping online and making Christmas presents in the past few years - and more and more I find myself spending less and less time, and money, anywhere that plays Jingle Bell Rock elevator music, or has a Salvation Army bell ringer outside. And I don't think I'm the only one. More and more people are becoming exhausted by Christmas before December. More and more people are getting creative with their holidays in order to avoid malls and stores and Hallmark. More and more people are finding Christmas in their own way, and not how corporate America tells them to.

So joy to the world. But only if you want it. And it doesn't have to be red, or green, or packaged, or played. As long as it's in your own way, and in your own heart.

Too soon

2004-11-14T16:12:00.000-05:00

It snowed in November. Not just November, but not even halfway through November. I think I could have handled it around Thanksgiving, somewhere around the 25th or so. But the 13th? You've gotta be kidding me. I now have to live through at least 5 months of potential snowfall. That's a lot.

But it was gorgeous. Big fat flakes drifting down, slowly starting to stick one by one. Everything gets a little hazy, a little softer, a little cleaner when it snows. It doesn't seem as bitterly cold when it snows. You hear Julie Andrews singing about snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes when it snows. Sometimes, if you're really lucky, a little voice in your head will remind you that you're not dead yet and you'll catch that one perfect snowflake right in the middle
of your tongue.

For a few seconds during that first snowfall you forget. You forget what a bitch it's going to be to dig your car out. You forget that your pant cuffs are going to get wet and dirty. You forget that it's impossible to see, and people drive like maniacs, and your windshield is going to be permanently dirty for the next five months, and you have to shovel all this crap when you get home, and heating oil costs too damn much and it all gets messy in 3 hours anyway. You forget it all and remember sledding and cocoa and snowball fights and fun and you smile.

At least I hope you do. No one is that pessimistic, are they?

2004-11-14T16:08:00.000-05:00

Crimson

Stream of something

2004-11-12T15:40:00.000-05:00

Not quite stream of consciousness, but there's just been too much lately to fit into a neat and tidy blog, so here goes.

My world is upside down because Bush is somehow again my President and the Red Sox have won the world series. I'm now no longer a loser, but my leader still is.
I am the coolest grown up ever because I can make elephant noises and fish faces during indoor recess with sixteen eight year olds.
I looked out the window at the snow more times today than the small children. Is that sad?
I wonder if it ever snows in Fallujah. Is there ever a moment when the world is covered in white and everything is clean and white and simple and calm? Not today anyway. I wonder how many soldiers would be watching it snow today if they weren't there.
I wonder if I should cut bangs back in. I've been trying to see how I'd look without them, but I just got some photos back and I'm not sure if I like it anymore.
I'm wearing combat boots in bed. Irony? Or just lazy?

2004-11-08T17:01:00.000-05:00

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of what we have become
A nation of whiners and fighters and near
To exhausting our Armies of one

They’re snapping on the playground and sniping in Iraq.
They know they hate each other but they’re pretending to be friends.
Doesn’t matter what your color or your means or your age
The truth of social politics is the bullshit never ends

You hated me in high school now you ask about my weekend plans
I didn’t like you much either, but I answer to impress
I didn’t like your makeup, Abercrombie, your fake tans
So why is it I’m shopping for a hot reunion dress?

People prentending to be grownups and teaching their kids right
So why are they screaming at a PTO bake sale tonight?
They can’t agree on pricing of a stupid carrot cake
That’s from the store cause nobody anymore even cares enough to bake.

I’ll look past it when they’re two the terrible’s expected
It’s okay even when they’re older if the reason is they’re neglected
But by thirty your excuses are shot, it’s time to face what’s real
You’re not a kid, you’re not a teen and I don’t care how you feel.

So listen my children and you shall hear
The opinion from twenty three
You’re self absorbed, and immature
So grow up and you’ll see
Your kids need leaders, your nation too
Your friends will like you better when you’re
Not just faking “true”.
You’re not entitled and you shouldn’t be
So look past your bags and makeup and cars
And finally try to see.

Balancing Act

2004-11-02T15:37:00.000-05:00

You never realize how off balance your life can become until you have to recenter it. Or sometimes you don’t even realize that you need to, it just somehow miraculously happens and you look around one day and realize how well things are working out and wonder how you lived before life was on such an even keel.

I only came to realize the kind of balance my life has finally reached the other day when I realized just how much I enjoyed sitting on a couch at home with my mom and dad watching movies, baseball games, and Jeopardy. I spent so many of the years of my life trying to convince myself I was too cool for that. That I had some kind of life where everything was exciting all the time, and that it was what I wanted.

The truth is, I love my nights out. I love the wild and crazy evenings of drinking, dancing, partying. I love the concerts and the house parties and the club events. I love girls’ night out, I love guys’ night out, I love it all.

But I like my couch. I like renting movies and cooking dinner and going to bed early. I like reading the stacks of books I pretended I was okay ignoring.

I live at home with my parents. And it’s not just because I don’t make a lot of money, but because I like it. I like my family. I like family dinners and spending nights doing crossword puzzles together. I spent so much time trying to avoid the stigma of living at home, when the truth is, I like living at home and I really don’t care what anybody thinks about that.

It took a long time to realize that I have an exciting life without it having to be all exciting all the time. It took a long time to see that if I was happy doing what I was doing, then I didn’t need to keep doing other things so that people would regard my life a certain way. It is mine after all. It’s all a balancing act. And I’m finally back standing in the middle of the seesaw. And loving it there.

suggestion

2004-10-09T16:28:00.000-05:00

It's amazing, isn't it? The power of suggestion?

And the biggest culprit these days is television. I know, because I am extremely succeptible to the power of suggestion. Whether it's the Burger King ad that sends me flying out the door because I need a whopper now, or the Victoria's Secret ad that reminds me I haven't bought sexy bras that I'll only wear once a month in a while, I am the easiest sell sometimes. I try not to be, I really do. But the power of persuasion that is in suggestion is difficult to resist. I can fight somebody flat out telling me what to do. What I have a hard time with is my own mind once a suggestion has been made.

I fought a great battle with this today. I have a wicked cold, the kind that knocks you out and makes you feel like a puddle of human. So I spent most of the day on the couch flipping through channels. I found myself on MTV, and dear lord, I stayed there. It was awful. Next up was a show called Laguna Beach. "I love Laguna", I thought, so I snuggled down, and watched.

Laguna Beach is absolutely beautiful. The beaches, the town, the little shops and restaurants, and the glorious arts festival it hosts every summer is amazing. I used to love going down to Laguna when I lived in California. And here I was watching a show bombarding me with incredible images of sandy beaches and swaying palms. And I started to wonder, was leaving California for sure the right decision? Did I really hate it there so much? I mean, it was beautiful, and the weather was amazing, and I did have a lot of fun and...wait, what am I thinking? Sure I had a wonderful time when I was there, but I left for a reason. I left because of the superficial attitudes, the poor values systems, the plasticity of it all. I left because it was so hard to find good people, good times, culture, and reality. I left because great weather all the time gets boring.

And as I paid more attention to the show, I picked up on the foolish little teenagers with their perfect purses but poor personalities. Their plastic makeup and plastic outlooks.

But for a few seconds that damn show had me guessing. The power of suggestion of those palms, those beaches, those perfectly perfumed breezes had me wondering.

Amazing, isn't it?

Ladies

2004-10-08T14:58:00.000-05:00

"Sounds like you guys want to live like you're on an episode of Sex and the City."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

I was speaking the other day to a friend I hadn't talked with in a while, and he asked what I had been up to. After the fifth mention of something I had done "with my girls", he asked who the hell my girls were. As if I could fit an answer to that question in one phone conversation! He had an affect to the way he talked about us, as if our exploits sounded passe, or cliche, or tawdry like a tv show. What he doesn't understand is that there is a reason that show did so well.

In fact, I met several of the women who I now refer to as "my girls" through a posting on a site that said "Carrie looking for Samantha and Charlotte". A friend of a friend replied, they met, they came and met us, and our little group of hot mamas began. Some of us know each other from High School. Some from college. Others from that fateful posting. But we all share the bond of being young, facing the fabulous prospects of life in a city, and wanting to make the most of every second of it.

We do the things people see on sitcoms and movies. We hit club openings, we get on VIP lists. We hit up bars and lounges and clubs and dancefloors all over the city. We each have a favorite drink, and know where to get the best one. We eye men like kids in a candy store, and we have graphic conversations about our sex lives. But we are real women.

We discuss our fears of relationships. Fears of getting into them, fears of getting stuck in them, fears of getting out of them, fears of not finding another one. We talk about guys like they are people too, wondering what they think, or what they want out of life, love, us? We talk about jobs, careers, money, lack thereof. We talk about muffins and sports, make-up and shoes, men and sex, money and stress.

My friend made it sound like having a life that was like a sitcom was not a great thing. I disagree. If the show was enough like people and life to have extensive viewership for six seasons, then I'm living the life people held up their Sundays to watch. Only I'm out there, not on the wrong side of the screen.