yadda yadda yadda part one

Out With the Old

2007-02-24T09:32:00.000-08:00

I've decided to leave AOL. This does not mean I'll be leaving blogging!

http://www.alex2ali.blogspot.com

Please bookmark me!!!

Victimization 101

2007-02-23T12:30:00.000-08:00

Studies have shown that people are attracted to a field for a reason. I read somewhere that over 80% of psychologists have their own mental health issues. I wouldn't doubt it. I have found that people in mental health typically have one of two views of the world: either they are the victim or the advocate.

Today we had a planned water main shut down at work. We notified staff ahead of time and chose the time of day when there were the least amount of clients scheduled. Two of my teams typically take Friday's off so that also was a bonus. This is a building where it looks really great from the outside but since my tenure we have had multiple power outages, heat failure, and leaks. The staff have worked through it all.

Once the email about the planned water shut off went out you would have thought I announced the sky was falling. Doctors showed up in my office telling me it was a health hazard. Supervisors told me it was "demoralizing" because by expecting staff to work without facilities sends the larger message that the organization doesn't care about their employees. Are you freaking kidding me?? It is a two hour planned event. Two hours. What was even worse was the people who were complaining weren't even scheduled to work on Friday.

We have had the first floor of the building under construction due to failing foundation for over a year. The water main issue is actually progress forward. I did due diligence and followed things up with admin then wrote a detailed email citing that we only had 4 clients scheduled (which is a whole 'nother issue due to the low volume) and that they should not take this personally. Really, I don't spend my nights awake thinking, "How do I make so and so's life a living hell?" I didn't write that specifically, but it was a more diplomatic way of saying thank you for sharing your concerns but get-over-it, grow some kahunas, and choose your perception. You could choose to see this as a negative or you could see this as a positive that construction is moving forward!!! I also stated that if people had medical problems I would be more than happy to help problem solve things with them. The clients were notified (all 4 of them) and I would provide bottled water, hand sanitizer, port-a-potties, and arrangements with neighboring businesses for those two whole hours!!! I ended the email with, "I choose to assume good intent and expect my team members to do the same." All was quiet on the Western front after that....until this morning.

I got not only a call from our CEO, but OSHA and the State Department of Health. However, this individual did not leave a name because they feared "retribution." What the??? Are you freaking kidding me?? Can you say, passive aggressive? I have since spent the day writing letters to the powers that be, giving a heads up to PR, and working with the facilities director. Of course, everything is in compliance. All I need is for the news media to show up. I seriously wonder if this person thinks they are a huge victim or an advocate? Personally, I believe true advocates will take accountability and leave their name.

Hoosier, Officially

2007-02-22T06:23:00.000-08:00

Well, it took me almost 6 months but I finally can say I'm a Hoosier. I'm not certain that is something to be proud of, especially as I watched them cut up my one good drivers license photo on my Utah license. But, at least now I'm legal.

It took me 6 separate trips to this stupid place and multiple website visits just to get this feat accomplished. My first trip was on a Monday while we were still engaged and I was trying to pick up a handbook so I could study. Closed. Closed? On a Monday? Yup. Trip two was to finally get the handbook.

Trip three was to get the actual license. They checked me in nicely, looked over all of my identification and sat me down to take the test. It still baffles me as to why its important to know you cannot park within X amount of feet of a fire hydrant. I get it as to why but I have yet to see even the most OCD person get out of their car with a measuring tape to double check the specific amount of feet. I passed the test and thought I was in like Flynn. Nope. Didn't have my birth certificate or passport. Of course those were back in the safe deposit box in Utah so I had to delay things until my trip home at Christmas.
Safe deposit boxes usually contain things that you do not want to send in the mail or you could have just any random person go get. Nope, it had to be me. Why I didn't think of this before I moved is beyond me. They were quite nice about denying me a license at that point in time. I would imagine it would be an awful job to work at the DMV with everyone screaming at you. I was internally rageful, but held it in as I knew it was not that specific person sitting in front of me's fault for the stupid confusing website instructions.

Trip four was back again on a Monday. I blame me for forgetting this part. By now I'm getting smart and actually decided to transfer my title at the same time. That took some coordination, but I got a letter from the bureau stating that they got it from my lienholder. Trip five was Tuesday morning. I got in line and realized that I forgot my social security card. Back home. Trip six was 20 minutes later with me bringing in everything but the kitchen sink and boy I am glad.

"Sales tax? I don't see when you purchased the car. Do you have a statement of salestax?" The tightly blond bad permed 20 year old with Wet N' Wild pink lip gloss smacked her gum at me. I wickedly pulled out last years statement from my folder o' tricks. Yup, they never put this on the website, but I was prepared.

"Huh. Ok, what about proof of insurance?" This was an easy one. The dual was on.

"And I'll need proof of your residence here through the mail." I handed her a phone bill.

"This won't count. Its not from a government agency." She smiled. Not to be defeated, I produced the letter from that DMV branch stating that my title was in.

"Will this do?" I sweetly asked knowing that I had just claimed my victory. She slowly, at a snails pace, hand pecked my information into the keyboard. Hey, if she sped it up it just meant she had another angry customer to serve.

As my reward, I got to go stand over by the blue backdrop and wait for them to say, "One, two" Click/flash "three." I think they teach them how to do this just to get the hideous photos.

I walked out of there with a new license and license plate in hand. My theory was that it was the State's advantage to keep as much confusion up around the process so they could screen potential residents for their persistence, problem solving, and gusto. But then I went to Wendy's for lunch.

Wouldn't you know the only white person there was the manager, which is a sad statement of our country, but that is only an observation. This woman flew about in a mad frenzied rage appearing very busy doing menial tasks. It was very important that the trays were all stacked up by the garbage. Then she would fly back through the kitchen screaming, "coming through!" Somehow she then remembered she forgot step two in bringing the trays back to where the food was, so she flew back to get them. The employees are watching her mumbling under their breath as they go about their tasks. She then informed everyone she would be taking orders.

Now I've seen this process go very smoothly at other Wendy's. An employee will come out with a carbon pad, take your order, and then either hand them to the line cooks or call them in on their headset. Seems this woman couldn't quite get the concept. She was taking our orders down on a regular pad of paper, tearing off thepaper and handing it to the customer. There was no communication with the line cooks or calling it in, eventhough her headset was hanging around her neck. She took her job very seriously, but unfortunately her customers and employees did not. The snickering continued. I began to wonder if this person passed the DMV test. At that time, one of my fellow Wendy's patrons turned to me and said, "This is prime example of why we do not work in fast food."

That afternoon I took my car in. I asked for them to do a quick check on a couple of things but to also put my new plate on my car. As I drove out I noticed I only had one of my old Utah plates on my passenger seat. Where was the other one? Still on my car. On the front I'm a Utah girl and the back I'm Indiana. Again, did these people pass the DMV test?

Inspiration Angst

2007-02-17T08:07:00.000-08:00

Googling yourself can yield interesting results. For example, I found my agenda item for Utah's Social Work Licensing Board as a public record, family history my uncle researched, and apparently I'm a Tulane board alumni representative. What was the most interesting discovery was a link to a blog/website that listed my name. Thank God I recognized the person.

This individual came into my life by chance. She was a volunteer at a social work agency I worked for and was interested in the field. I offered to have her sit in and assist with my females group for young teens struggling with substance abuse issues. Word spread that I was open to having co-facilitators and I had 4 or 5 these volunteers during my 5 year tenure with the agency. They were bright young women, dedicated to creating change, and incredibly reliable. I always made it a point to include them in the content planning and we always debriefed after the marathon sessions. The females were filled with drama and the groups were like mini soap operas for 90 minutes. Every single one of my volunteers ended up going back to school for their Masters of Social Work.

A couple of them became dear friends and colleagues. We would go to dinner after group to then share our more personal lives. I always looked forward to those Thursday nights.

This morning as I ran the search and came across the link, I found her profile on a social activist website. She listed her favorite books, her passions, her hobbies, and then her teachers/mentors. I was listed there. I couldn't believe it. What an incredible honor. Jeniece was someone who loved working with the homeless, did domestic violence work in Uganda and found her own spiritual path. She does things that I only wish I had the courage to try.

It made me realize how much people of slight chance can have such an incredible impact even without intention. My mentors continue to shape me even if I haven't spoken with them in years. Their voices are internalized.

One of them, Jane Parker, continues to give me inspiration to this day. I remember when I was complaining to her that my career felt stupid, more like common sense, and yet when I gave talks at conferences people wrote down every point I made. Her response was, "Honey, just because its easy for you doesn't make it less valuable for others. It just tells me you are in the right field and you are a natural. Let them pay you for what you are worth." She was also the one who reminded me, "Honey, that's why God invented Tide," when she found yellowing antique lace curtains. She never gave up. Not then. Not now. Not even after she lost the love of her life last year.

Another also from graduate school, Lynn Pearlmutter, made a casual observation one day that became a creed for me. It was election time and I had signed up to run for vice president. She said, "In such a woman dominated field dedicated to social justice, isn't it interesting that 90% of leadership positions are held by all the men?" I immediately erased my name and entered the race to be president. I won.

As my life moves forward I realize that very few of my mentors are outside of my profession. I do not have homemaker role models, besides my mother, who even now is the bread winner of the family. That makes me sad. I don't find inspiration in this role and yet to be a mother and wife are two of the greatest roles imaginable. As my biological clock continues ticking I realize that I'm entering a world of angst. Where is the inspiration?

The Ex Factor

2007-02-15T05:55:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I sent out links to my wedding album design and photo montages created by our incredible wedding photographer. I didn't think twice as I scrolled through my AOL address book inserting email addresses left, right, and center. Usually I would think that such an act would be incredibly self centered to send out a mass email that essentially screams: look how happy I am and how gorgeous I am!!! At least this is the caddy side of me that would be commenting about any other post-bride's mass email of photos, "Humph, she's just trying to rub it in and relive her day. Move on, honey! Your time has come and gone!"

However, I really wanted to share the excellence of my photographer and my cousin, make up artist to the stars. When he was finished with me I looked like me only kicked up a notch Emeril style. Bam!

At any rate a week or so passed and I was checking my email. I had received several emails from relatives asking about how I was doing in Indy and some from friends who were unable to attend. There was one that stuck out like a sore thumb. Cue stage right to enter the ex factor.

"Hello!Congratulations! I knew that you were engaged, but I didn't knowwhen you were actually getting married. You look so beautiful in yourphotos and your dress looks amazing. When did you get married? Te-Mika and I married on October 22nd...."

Oh. My. God. There I was sipping my Sunday java with my husband sitting across the table from me. I think my grin on my face was beginning to make me resemble the Cheshire Cat. J noticed.

"What's up?" He casually asked noticing the extreme affect shift.

How does one explain that you accidentally emailed the guy to ripped out your heart, stomped on it, threw it in the microwave on high to let it wilt like bad roses, put it back in your chest and whispered sweet nothings? The Ex. The one you learned more than your share of karmic life lessons with and swore you earned nothing but good romantic ju ju for decades to come. The one you would casually spit on the ground before announcing his name in public. The-one-who-shall-not-be-named!

"Uhh." I so eloquently began and then tried to sound casual. "Remember when I sent out the email with links to our album last week? I guess I thought my address book was more current than it was. I just got an email back from insert bastard's name here."

J's eyebrow lifted ever so slightly and you could tell he was trying to play it cool too.

"He apparently got married as well and sent me links to his wedding website. Her name is Te-Mika." Te-Mika? What kind of a name is Te-Mika? I began to envision a wedding in the jungle room of Disneyland. This is especially relevant as this Ex and I had had several conversations about how names can label you. Like for instants, on resumes long before you even meet the person which was an important issue for social justice and racism. He was shocked to learn that names like Charone and Sheree were common in Utah, but they belonged to white people. This ex had a history of always dating people with white sounding names.

"Huh. Really?" J responded. By now I was so extremely curious, I was linking to their website.

"Orange? Orange bridesmaids dresses???" I exclaimed embracing the inner caddy female. "Roses. Peach roses." I couldn't help but announce the details I found so anti-my taste. I realized how ugly I was sounding so I added, "She does look beautiful." And she did.

"So, I realize this is a rhetorical question: are you going to be forwarding this link to the girls, the ya ya's?" J asked referring to my friends who saw me through this miserable mess of a break up.

"Absolutely in a heartbeat."

Bless this Yolk O Lord

2007-02-11T06:51:00.000-08:00

"Which eggs are we using?" J asked pointing to our recent addition of two dozen eggs in our fridge due to miscommunication and solo shopping trips.

"Use the ones that expire first." I pulled out the ones that J bought. "Honey, you bought religious eggs."

"What? They were from Trader Joes."

"The have Psalm 118:24 on the inside of the carton."

"They were Dutch eggs. They were farmed in Wisconsin."

"Great. Not only are they religious, but they're Lutheran eggs."

Yup, Catholics have the honey trade down by the monks, but those Lutherans have the corner on the egg market.

Kirkland Crack

2007-01-20T10:14:00.000-08:00

If you haven't noticed yet, my husband is a huge fan of Costco. The man would wear a neon pink tee shirt in public with the slogan "I heart Costco." It is his home away from home. He has been known to fall asleep post call in the massage chairs with drool hanging off of his lip. Once when we were in Hawaii, cranky from the long flight and overwhelmed by traffic, he found the Costco and once in the warehouse, all was right with the world. His panic attack ceased and he was soothed by the mounds of bulk items.

I've often thought more of his grandparent's depression era mind set rubbed off on him. (i.e. If one is good, twelve are better.) If you doubt me, go through your relatives stuff. They are usually hanging onto things like sheets for a twin bed from 1956 because they may come in handy one day even though there are only king sized beds in the house. These are the relatives that won't pass up a good deal even though they don't need the stuff. "Of course we needed the 12 pack of industrial sized WD40. I saved $0.20 per canister!" However, I digress.

I have learned that it caused exquisite glee in this man if I conceed to buying things like large bricks of cheese or Christmas trees. However, what he really gets into is the Kirkland Signature brands. At first, when he cracked open a bottle of the Kirkland Signature champagne one evening I thought it was just plain tacky. Although I have to admit, I've become a convert to some things. Their alcohol truly is quite good and is their milk and their meat. Before long, I was buying things Costco style.

Last week on a chilly Monday morning I went out to start my car. It was running about as smooth as Oscar the Grouch's Jalopy. I ran in to wake my post call husband. In retrospect I really don't know what I was expecting him to do and I then chided myself for even turning to a man when I was a free thinking woman. He looked under the hood and concluded he knew nothing about cars in general. Why he even tried is beyond me. He tried to close the hood and instead injured himself. As he went back to the house shaking his fist and swearing profanities trying to find the first aid kit, I called the dealership. It was determined that I could safely drive it there and they would give me a ride to work. A Black guy named Elvis drove me to work.

Later that afternoon I went to go pick it up.

"Just out of curiosity, where did you last fill up your car?" The service manager asked as the technician brought me the keys.

"Costco." I said and immediately they grimaced. Not a typical grimace, but more like I poured salt and lemon juice onto a wound grimace. The technician even shook his hand like he had just picked up something hot or was indicating that some Latina woman had a hot body.

"It makes me shudder." The technician said. "Shudder." He repeated for effect.

"This is a performance vehicle." The service manager said. "Do you know what that means? That means you only feed it quality gas. BP or Shell only in this area. Long term filling up of Costco or whatever will cause serious carbon build up and shorten the length of your vehicle's life. And lets see, you only have about 21 days on your warranty."

The technician sucked in through his teeth wincing once again. I began to feel like someone just gave my car a diagnosis of lung cancer and I had been the one to buy it the cigarettes.

"I didn't know. I won't do it again. What do I do now?"

"Well, you go out to the corner, turn right, stop at BP and fill up hoping that the gas will mix. These are the only companies that add fuel boosters and cleaners to their gasoline."

"I HOPE?!??!" I repeated.

"Yup." He hands me the keys. "No charge for this one."

I left the dealership completely anthropomorphizing my car. I was apologizing to it aloud as I drove it to the gas station promising I'd take better care of it. HOPE??? I was also now getting angry and defensive about my husband's view of the warehouse palace. I came home and told him matter-of-factly what the verdict was without any inflection of my voice. He, however, obviously felt bad and guilty by saying, "I feel like I led you astray." I realized that my anger was unwarranted. He didn't know.

Two days later, it wouldn't even start. I watched as the towing company loaded it onto the truck again feeling sorry for how sad the car looked. SAD??? Its a car, for Christssake! I thought of it all alone in the parking lot waiting to be worked on the next day. I went inside to get Edgar to transfer all of my stupid feelings onto a live animal.

It was finished the next day and they replaced a few things that apparently also shorted out. Its now running like the race horse its supposed to be. But I'll tell you one thing, in this household, while we may still buy the Signature champagne, we leave the pumps alone.

Making Headlines and Taking Names

2007-01-10T17:42:00.000-08:00

Oh yeah. Indiana is again soaring and I mean soaring in the limelight. Last week I heard our police department made the laughing stock at the Las Vegas National Gang Convention. (As in, are you freaking kidding me??? Your idiot govenor actually agreed to take thousands of California inmates in order to create jobs??? How desparate are you??? You do realize these gang members will now be your problem when they are released, right?)

Today "Armed and Famous" debuted on CBS right before the President's address (really, a whole night worth picking up a book and not watching TV at all...save the electricity.) If you haven't heard, this is a reality show that has only really stellar "A" list stars. They have been sworn in as Muncie, Indiana's police force. These individuals have firearms. You should be scared. This has all debuted simultaneously as Indianapolis's mayor just released his "safety first" campaign.

Muncie, Indiana. Really, quite the hot spot of crime. What? A broken headlight? A traffic violation? Perhaps a DUI if we're lucky. Ooh, high drama for primetime. Remember, this is a state where teeth are optional (and see exhibit A of the second/third/and other arrests on the show.)

And the stars of the show are: LaToya Jackson (yup, the freaky plastic surgery Jackson...oh wait, that's Michael.), Erik Estrada (as in Chips), a midget (of course you need to have a midget to make it a show...isn't that what all of the circus's wanted back in the 1920's? He also has a Napoleon syndrome with a delusional sex drive) a WWF female wrestler (sex appeal perhaps? dumb blonde?) and of course you've gotta love Jack Osbourne (who happens to be a dead-on marksman...freaky!)

Most of the individuals arrested by Erik are just commenting how handsome he is and calls him "Ponch." Good times, good times. This is the most action Muncie, Indiana has had since the medical center opened up the OBGYN wing.

Proof of Premature Insanity

2007-01-01T07:52:00.000-08:00

For years I have lived under the assumption that I am feminist, hear me roar. I also believe that you can tell a lot by just looking at what books people have in their houses. This theory was later supported when I watched an amateur detective reality show On Demand for the Discovery channel.

On my bookshelves I have a few Gloria Steinem's literary accomplishments, Transforming a Rape Culture, The Bitch in the House (a collection of essays), and Bitch by Elizabeth Wurtzel. Do you see the theme emerging? I also have a wide variety of therapy text books, a few of my very favorite novels, the complete works of Shakespeare, a collection of children's books, and some other spiritural/self-help selections. One of my best friends noted that he would hate to be next to me with one of my Bitch books and his sister (a specialist in anti-terrorism) on an airplane.

When I got back to Utah for Christmas my mother made the comment that I must be ready for a child. I felt a little dumb founded at first until I looked at the evidence.

1) I brought Edgar. It actually was cheaper for us to fly the dog than to board him, so that could be explained. We first thought about putting him in the cabin with us. So after trying to get him to sit still so we could measure the dog and a Petco search I arrived home with a very cute (but not Paris Hiltonesque) carryon. Edgar became accustomed to it and we were very happy. When I called the airline to confirm his passanger status, they told me that it was a no go. There apparently is a rule that only 2 dogs are allowed in the cabin at a time and he would have to go cargo. I vowed I would find those bastards that thought their fido was more cabin worthy than my Edgar. I then began to fret about Edgar in cargo. Would he be warm? Would he get lost? Would he be scared? J pointed out that a few hours in a box would be better than days in a small kennel (aka box).

2) Edgar sent my parents "Dear Santa Paws" letters. Ok, in all fairness I did the first one in jest after a few glasses of port the same night we set up the Christmas tree. J was the one who created Edgar's own email account (Edgar-dog@comcast.net). And HE was the one who did the second letter (although I did help with the content.)

3) Edgar arrived in a very cute red turtleneck sweater. (See the cold argument from point 1.) It is winter and I didn't think too much about it to be honest. My brother and I used to dress Henry, our first Scottie, up in old tee shirts and little boys whitey-tightys (with the tail out the hole) and parade him around the neighborhood on walks. Henry felt fancy. Edgar's sweater was a definite step up. The vet initially cleared him up to 32 degrees. When we checked into the airport here in Indy, we had a very concrete thinker airline employee "helping" us.

"It says its 28 degrees in Salt Lake right now." She informed us and then just stared.

"Uh huh." I said, failing to meet her logic. "Outside its 28. He'll be in the plane."

"28 degrees." She repeated Rainman style. "This says 32." Pointing to the health certificate.

"We had no formal discussion. Its winter. Its cold. I'm certain he'll be fine. You can call the vet." J could hear the irritation in my voice and began to rub my back.

"28 degrees is different from 32." She repeated showing her brainiac skills. I wasn't about to point out that it was 28 at 5:00 PM and it would drop by the time we actually got to Salt Lake so she would then have to take that into consideration. Edgar in the meantime is panting away furiously as the damn sweater is making him hot.

She ended up calling the vet and then putting her on the phone with me. I wasn't the one who had a problem and needed her to clear things up. However, I was the one talking with her. Thank God, Dr. Cara seemed dumbfounded as much as I was. J later pointed out that the airlilne representative was just doing her job. Whatever.

One of those bastards with some stupid maltese checked in ahead of us as the carry on. The sinile man kept telling me about a dog, "you know, the kind that General Patton had," was the meanest sons-of-bitches he ever saw in his neighborhood and by the way, what kind of dog do I have?

3) Edgar's crate was decorated. See point #1's argument about getting lost on the airline. I read online that if you can make the crate look rediculous, it will stand out and will be less likely to get lost. I spent a worthy $30 at the craft store and drank some home brew listening to Christmas carols getting it ready the night before.

However, what really remained was some crazy looking lady with her pampered pooch in a red sweater and rediculously decorated crate who wrote letters in colored marker with her left hand on behalf of her dog to a fictitious character derived from another fictitious character who chimney dives. What looked out of place was me holding a feminist book. Was this foreshadowing? Was I going to be one of those moms who come to soccer games in matching jerseys and healthy snacks like oranges for the whole team? Was I going to become a master of doing my daughter's hair in fancy braids when all I can do to my own hair is a ponytail? Maybe it was just projection on my parent's behalves? They were the ones who had the letters posted to the fridge much like a grand childs.

Standing in the airport watching the various looks of "oh how cute" to sheer horror as I held Edgar, it dawned on me. I just looked at J and said, "Oh my God, I'm turning into one of those ladies. But I'm not old enough to be one of those crazy old ladies."

He said, "Hon, you aren't turning into one, you already are one of those ladies, you are just a bit premature with your craziness."

Leaning Tower of Tree-sa

2006-12-18T08:42:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday I came home and found our Christmas tree had arrived. J and I debated about getting a tree considering we will be home in SLC, but it is our first Christmas together. The tree was freshly cut from Oregon and was wrapped in twine and a bag. J had assessed that given our type of tree stand, we would need to drill a hole in the bottom of the trunk. This of course required us to go find a bit the size of the pole. By 8:45 I was ready to call it a night hoping that we could push off the tree drama until the next day. However, after I was reminded of the countless parties, Christmas Carol play, and other scheduled events I realized the tree couldn't be postponed. I truly was a grumpy Grinch while my husband was so excited about the tree he was doing everything but tap dancing. What finally elevated my mood was his pleading as well as then opening up the mail shipping order slip. J had sent a message, "To Edgar-dog. Remember that there are differences between inside trees and outside trees." It was silly, but it made my heart melt (or in the Grinch's case, grow two sizes too big.)

In my pajamas, we went to the hardware store. (I really wasn't kidding when I said I was ready to call it a night.) We found the bit. On our way home, J was asking about doing the lights too that evening. I told my overzealous husband to not get too committed as I was already anticipating the drama. I have had girlfriends whose engagements have almost come to a halt due to a Christmas tree whether it be the tree, the lights, the decorations, etc.. My reality was far from my husband's idealized romantic notion of Christmas.

It was very dark and unseasonably warm. It was in the 60's or so during the day so standing outside in your pj's wasn't bad. There we were on our front stoop, hovering around the yellow porch light trying to decide scientifically where to begin drilling the hole and how to make it straight. "Go up the middle." That was my solution. It seemed straight enough to me when we put it flat on the cement. We practiced a bit on spare wood scraps and then began with the tree. That sucker was hard. I finally had the brilliant idea that perhaps the sawdust was getting in the way of making progress forward. Sure enough, it was. We would drill, then clear out sawdust, then drill again, etc etc etc. When we thought it was done, we hauled it inside to the stand. After some maneuvering, it stood...kind of. Well, it was more like leaning at a 45 degree angle and resting on the windows for support. I broke into a fit of laughter. This just made J more angry.

"Are you laughing at me?"

I'm rolling on the floor. "Nope, just the situation. Its just typical. I know you want things to be perfect."

"Yes."

"Its like the wedding. So many things went wrong, but who cares? It turned out perfect for us."

He concluded that he needed something to drink. So at 11:20 or so on a work night, we broke out some port and took the tree back outside. By now, Edgar is really confused with the activity.

We recalulated the angle to straighten the tree out and proceeded to drill and saw a little off the bottom for water uptake. At one point in time J pulled the bit out of the tree. I forgot that there was a LED light that glowed blue and helped navigate where you are drilling, but that's not what I saw.

"Wow! That drill bit is really hot! Its glowing!" I exclaimed.

"Al, its the LED light. Yup, back to the spontaneous combusting tree theory again for you."

We finally got the tree back into the house and into the stand. It was still a little crooked, but much much better. While I finished off the port, J began with the lights. I actually found a man who enjoys doing lights! My father used to be meticulous in this, but as he got older he just seemed bothered by the whole task but wouldn't give it up. He would be happy just winding one strand around and around the whole tree then calling it good. (I exaggurate, but not by much.)

As the night was winding down at 1:30, Edgar needed to go outside. J offered to take him. He came back in laughing.

"As if this night couldn't get any worse. Edgar pooped and while I was aiming for the garbage, his poop bag landed in the rain gutters." We decided to wait until the next day to fix that problem.

Making Merry

2006-12-10T11:57:00.000-08:00

Today J's pager went off unexpectantly and early. I mean, cock-a-doodle-dog wasn't even up kind of early. He was on jeapordy call and wouldn't you know, someone got ill and he had to go in. I felt completely ripped off of a day with my husband.

We had plans, damnit. We were actually going to try and decorate the house for Christmas. Our tree still hasn't arrived, but we could do things like put up garlands, go find a wreath, actually have a fire in the fireplace since I hired the chimney sweep last week to give us a green light. But nooooo. Some stupid colleague actually broke the super-human myth that doctors are supposed to live up to and got sick enough they sent him home. (I keep telling J that this does in fact happen when he's hacking up a lung or swearing he'll steal some pedialite to keep himself hydrated from the children's hospital, but he doesn't listen and still believes he is superman with a pager and a stethoscope.) At any rate, I got left to make merry all by myself.

J and I have done some Christmas stuff. We made mulled wine last night. We made cookies this week. (Mind you, we have an odd assortment of cookie cutters so I made the usual snowmen and angels, but I threw in some Christmas rhinoceros and frosted them purple, much to J's horror of my unconventionality.) We also made a warm veggie stew on a cold winter's night (which actually was quite bland.) And yesterday we did brave the malls to go find a winter forest candle from Williams Sonoma for the house. Some Christmas stuff, but not a ton.

I decided I really needed some human interaction. Staying at home cleaning with the dog wasn't going to make my spirits bright and I could just see J's disappointed face if he were to come home post-call tomorrow morning and saw that I decided I needed a little bit of Christmas solo. I ended up calling my co-hostess from the turkey party. She's the only one I know that is only semi-non-medical or work related here. I suggested brunch. I quickly confined houndini and thought nothing of my messy house as I headed out the door.

It was a nice brunch. I felt girlie gossiping and whatnot over lattes. Just as I was ready to head home, she said, "Ok, so I should totally go run errands, but instead I'm going to invite myself over to your house."

I thought she was joking. Nope. I quickly did a mental scan of the dirty laundry on the floor, dishes half unloaded from the dishwasher, Edgar's toys everywhere, and J's papers all over the back room. She came over and began commenting on our decor.

"Its very neutral, but we could totally work with this." She exclaimed opening the doors into the master bedroom with the bed unmade. "I love the desk, but its not in a good place for it to be shown off. I really see that storage is an issue for you guys. Perhaps an armoir? What do you think about a warm beige paint to warm up the walls?"

I found myself a bit overwhelmed, making excuses why things weren't Martha Stewartesque. "We?" I thought.

"Its my inner designer." She proclaimed. "I watch a lot of cable and get my ideas from there."

With the ideas she was throwing around I thought J wouldn't even notice a few garlands over the fireplace.

And You Wonder Why My Biggest Fear is Fire

2006-12-03T09:59:00.000-08:00

A recent conversation at a local Starbucks enjoying eggnog lattes:

"So if we order the Christmas tree from Costco, it will arrive on the 12th and we can enjoy it until we head to Utah."

"Ok. But we have to take it down before we leave. Otherwise its a fire hazard."

An eyebrow raises, "Explain that. This is why we unplug the lights."

"Yes, but Christmas trees can spontaneously implode and burn up. I don't want our house to burn down while we are gone."

A smile begins to spread, "Again, Al, this is why we unplug the lights. No electrical source."

"But this is what my parents told me when I was little. The tree is drying up and can catch on fire easier." Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, they sounded ridiculous.

"Uh huh. Its already dead the minute it is cut down."

"But it takes up water."

"Yeah, not because its alive. Its osmosis. So your argument is that the tree is dead and drying up therefore it can spontaneously combust and cause a fire eventhough it doesn't have any electrical source going to it."

"Well, again, this is what my parents told me."

"Wait, Al, let me not freak you out or anything, but we have 2x4's in the walls everywhere in the house. We have wooden furniture. They could combust any second!" The sarcasm and teasing were dripping and his smile was wide.

"Huh. I can't believe I thought it was true for 31 years of my life."

Turkey Party

2006-11-24T11:04:00.000-08:00

After my last entry, I got quite a few phone calls and emails about the turkey soiree.

"100 people?! You have got to be kidding?!!"

Nope, it went out to 100 people. However, only 10 showed. When the email went out announcing the Thanksgiving bash for the orphans, the program medical director responded that perhaps the host should be the official program's social chair as he has done such a great job arranging parties like Halloween and whatnot. The guy immediately responded that he wasn't the social chair, it really was his wife. This became a big joke, but she apparently didn't get it because when the story was relayed to her, she accepted it and asked about the tresury to hold such parties.

J and I were in charge of the turkey, stuffing, and cranberries. He spent most of Wednesday afternoon researching recipes. I also asked my dad for his recipe. We didn't make my dad's bird though as J felt he just couldn't compete with his and really wanted to start our own tradition. Fair enough. We brined the turkey in an apple herb solution, I made a wine butter basting sauce, stuffed the sucker with stuffing, and made 3 bags of fresh cranberries. This was all done with multiple calls to my family, whom I call 1-800-save-thanksgiving.

At 1:00, we packed up the poultry, Edgar, and other needed items to head to the west side of town. The bird was roasting, we were snacking, and actually watching Dr. Phil when the host arrived home from work. By 3:00 people were starting to show up. Edgar only snapped a few times at the other dog to establish dominance, but I was a mortified parent. The house was a bit smokey (due to the high high setting of the oven which I quickly fixed), and the wine was flowing. By the time the wine was flowing I truly didn't care when one person asked for free social work services and began to tell her story about trying to date her superior. The guys evesdropped and couldn't resist.

"You mean, you've been underneath him?" They chuckled while playing Mario Kart. That rather ended our semi-therapy session.

Our hosts had set up the dining room which rather resembled a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. We were one step up from using the ping pong table, but we did have a rather odd assembly of folding chairs, card tables, and what appeared to be Kmart furniture. This is where the snob in me came through. J and I had lovely linens we registered for our wedding. There wasn't a thought about even placemats or candles, however we did have crystal goblets. One person grabbed a roll of papertowels at the last minute for napkins. The table was incongruent to say the least. The host was extremely excited to use his electric carving knife on the bird; one of his wedding gifts. I'm an old fashioned use-a-regular-knife kind of gal, but whatever.

Once seated, one couple was very religious and had their own prayer between themselves while the rest of us expressed thanks that everyone was here and began to dig in. The food was warm, the gravy was actually decent, and the bird was moist. Unbelievable. We tried to keep the dogs quarantined and away from the table, but Houndini made a comeback and escaped 3 times. The last time he actually taught Bailey, the puppy, how to do it. I don't think our host was amused especially when her dog (who is tall enough to put his head on the table) ate a piece of turkey thus violating his food allergy diet.

After dinner, one of the residents actually had to go to work for the night shift, which left the rest of us to play Trivial Pursuit. The girl on my team, blurted out every answer she knew regardless of who's turn it was causing us to lose the game. By this time I was wearing thin. I was tired. It was only when the host turned on Weird Al Yankovick that I knew I needed to go home. Last time I checked, most guys lose their facination with Weird Al after the seventh grade, but not this doctor. He knew all the words to "White and Nerdy," or the pancreas song. His wife finally asked that he turn it down. The evening ended when "Grey's Anatomy" started and the residents settled in to watch arguing about who was cuter McDreamy or McSteamy, agreeing that McSteamy really was the epitome of a sugery attending, and laughing at the improbabilites of the medical cases as well as criticizing the medical decisions. We left and saw the way too early Christmas lights already turned on in various neighborhoods going home.

All in all, it was a Thanksgiving I will remember. It was our first turkey. It was our first community holiday, which is what the holiday is all about. Next year we will be down under in Australia for a wedding involving kilts during the Thanksgiving holiday weekend. Never a dull moment.

Gobble, Gobble

2006-11-20T04:29:00.000-08:00

My father does a mean turkey.

When he retired years ago before returning to the workforce selling houses, he took on a new hobby of cooking. He took his new job very seriously. The man watched food tv non-stop, became proficent on the internet searching recipes and the weekly trip to the grocery store was a pilgramage. When my future kids become young adults, they will be talking about how nothing can beat grandpa's cooking.

My mom, who began the cullinary adventures of the household, thought my father's new obsession was a mixed bag. Yes, how wonderful it was to have him helping out, but dominating? This was the woman who piloted recipes for Junior League cookbooks and thought hosting 4 course dinners for Dad's business associates was fun. Not to rain on his parade, she watched my father "improve" on staples of the household like beef stew and then solicit applauding audiences for his ego. I tell you, she has a firm sense of self worth.

Thanksgiving has always been THE highlight of my father's year. He spends weeks planning for the holiday and literally has it down to a science. There are specific twists he incorporates into his feast. For instance, the cranberries have a dab of horseradish in them (amazing, let me tell you), and my maternal grandfather's turkey is now brined, smoked, and stuffed to golden perfection. Not once can I remember there being dry meat. My mother has incorporated Ginny's gravy science into lump free, sometimes giblet free (family joke), perfectly seasoned sauce.

Thanksgiving is the holiday my father looks forward to sharing with his siblings. The tables are formally set and it seems everyone looks forward to the event. Everyone brings something. One aunt has replicated my grandmother's sweet potatoes (which is hard to do as she was notorious for leaving out ingredients when giving you recipes), another always brings pies, and there is always a relish tray and rolls. I brought the rolls last year and they turned out TERRIBLE. (J and I were in the middle of fighting while I was making them. It was not a pretty holiday as I then sat in the kitchen complaining to Ginny and my aunts while he was off with his clan. Bad, bad news.)

I'm almost ashamed to say that this is my very first Thanksgiving away from home in my 31 years of life. I'm attempting to figure out how to create a new ritual in my marriage 1700 miles away from family. J and I thought it would be good to have Thanksgiving with some of his residency friends with whom we are particularly close.

I ordered a free range organic bird from Wild Oats (J obliged me on this one as although he is not a butterball guy, tyson should work just fine). I figured this was step one in trying to replicate Dad's piece de resistance and even my brother said, "Of course you're going to do Dad's turkey because its the best, right?" (However, J has been doing internet searches on other ways to prepare poultry.) I also began to collect things like gords (round two after Edgar ate the first batch) for decorations. One problem: his friends are either on call or working night float Turkey day while he actually has 4 days off in a row.

Another doctor's wife suggested that we combine efforts and do one together. Before I knew it she had planned the event with me as co-host for all orphans of the 100+ person program. This is not turning out to be the intimate gathering we had planned on nor will my 14 pound bird feed the lot of us. Last Friday night we went out with the festive couple and try to clarify the expectations around the event. I somehow lost this conversation and ended the night with her programming my cell phone number into her phone so we can divide up the dishes and plan. I'm still in denial about this.

After some talk, J and I have decided to host our original version of the holiday only on Friday while bringing some sides to Thursday's extravaganza. However, we have yet to talk to those for Friday's soiree.

While I have envisioned a quaint candlelit table with our wedding linens and perfect turkey, what I'm realistically expecting is a dried out bird that is three hours late. It will take years for me to live up to my parent's portrayal of the holiday and hopefully by then we'll be back in Salt Lake at their table.

Following Friends off Cliffs

2006-11-18T08:54:00.000-08:00

Recently, and I mean within the last month or so, I have had more friends and family announce that they are relocating across the country. Its like there is something going on in the heavens (must check Zodiac) that is telling people that the "in" thing to do is uproot everything you think as comfortable and normal and start over. Really, from experience I can tell you that living out of boxes, getting lost in scary neighborhoods looking for grocery stores, and trying to find basic contacts like hairstylists, are not activities that people count off as fun. I actually think the stress inventory checklist actually rates moving as one of the top stressors outside of having a loved one die.

When I was younger I used to think it was a very romantic notion to just pick up your life and start over in a new town. I actually purposefully sought such opportunities after events like graduation or breaking up with someone, but eventually I landed back home. Its kind of like when you have no money and are out browsing through stores that you find the perfect pair of shoes that costs a bazillon dollars or the perfect outfit. You never find stuff when you are looking for it. Kind of like the opportunity to move.

My brother will be relocating to Las Vegas in the next few weeks. He's going down there with a job offer, a rented van, and a combination of hope and prayers. He doesn't have a place to live but also remains confident that there is a social group off of the strip. I get the feeling that he is ambivalent about this relocation.

My aunt and uncle will be moving to New York next spring. They will be close to other family members there and I think they just really love the area. I think the remaining sibilings in Salt Lake are trying to figure out how their absence will impact the care of my grandfather, which again is stressful. Ultimately, they are doing what feels right and that is great.

One of my closest friends is leaving Katrina's continued havoc and will be relocating from Louisiana to Houston. She is a newlywed and is really looking out for her future children. She wants them to be near family and to be in a place of more opportunity. Its kind of scary for her now though as they are in mid-change and while she has a job that is waiting for her, the house is now on the market and her husband is working with a head hunter.

My best friend and her husband just went through a week of hell trying to decide to take a job offer and move from Salt Lake to Dallas. The change went about extremely quickly and there were a lot of factors to weigh. They too will be near her family, but leaving his. Her masters degree is almost completed, but she will need to resume in a different program. This is of course, not to mention having her uproot her twins. For me, I have a selfish issue in the fact of I'm wondering when I will see her. This factor makes me sick to my stomach. However, the good news is most of the ya yas will now be in Texas/Lousiana for group visits.

Another friend moved to Appleton, Wisconsin right after finding out she was pregnant and only a short tenure at her dream job. It was a planned move with their two year old, but stressful none the less.

And yes, another friend just found out yesterday he is moving from DC to the Miami area. I haven't gotten the details yet, but I suspect he is welcoming a change and yet ambivalent about the terms.

And the most exciting and exotic move is my cousin with her Colombian husband relocating from Japan to Switzerland with their little one. That, my friends, is true culture shock.

I can't help but think of when parental figures would ask you, "If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?" No no, its not like doing anything crazy like doing drugs or running around with the wrong crowd, its just moving during the holidays. Oh wait, maybe that is a cliff...

Potato, Pohtato, Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

2006-11-15T10:30:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I attended my first system wide management meeting. They hold these monthly and I'm actually pretty used to going to these as I had them back in SLC at my old job.

Typically this is the meeting where big HR initiatives are given a sneak preview to the management along with "talking points" on how to really paint the picture of an opportunity, not a challenge. For instance, when you are telling staff that their insurance premiums are going up you can phrase it like they are getting an opportunity to further invest in their personal health. I wish I were kidding. Other things they cover is budget, patient care initiatives, strategic plans, and regulatory processes.

The best part of these meetings is the food. Typically, they feed you. One of the bonuses of being senior leadership. Its not really catered with a full meal, but back in Salt Lake I was always happy to see the carafe of Starbucks coffee, warm doughnuts, real milk, juice, and tea. I'd get my provisions, exchange niceties with folks and then settle into my comfy chair in the auditorium to then listen to a very well run meeting by the COO.

Given my small but recent past with this organization I knew not to hold my expectations too high. I was surprised to see some snacks actually provided. Chex mix and what looked to be a vat with a spigot labeled, "coffee" on the masking tape. There were also non-dairy powdered milk and crusty sugar packets. I passed the all so tempting snacks. I entered the very dim large auditorium which really made my high school auditorium look state of the art and went to pick my seat. It took me 2 times before I found one that wasn't broken. As I settled into my dingy green chair with springs very palpable, I noticed that the auditorium was really filled. For a company with only 3000 employees, they seemed to have had about 150 there. Its like they couldn't decide who was appropriate for the meeting. Turns out that everyone from directors to managers to coordinators to supervisors were included. With so many people, it was hard to maintain control of the group and multiple side conversations took off. The sign in sheet was a clipboard with a mylar smiley face balloon attached to it being passed from person to person. I was surprised to see the interim CNO/mental health CEO nurse run the show. Well, attempt to run the show. Where was the COO/CEO? We sat around for 10 minutes trying to do positive stories in patient care. I then heard how it is going to take 2 years for the chaplains program to complete a religious library and survey the staff needs. 2 years??? In the end, we never made it through the agenda and went over time. How in the world does this happen?

Perhaps my expectations are too high. I realize I can't compare apples with pomegranates, but holy cow! I find that the simplest things I ask about become the largest discussion without resolution. The other day I asked what the standard was on documenting disciplinary actions. This landed me in a philosophical debate about how corrective action works in a recovery model. I don't freakin care! Just give me the policy and forms and I'll make it happen!

I'm also finding that all of my meetings with mental health people turn into a therapy session. There is a lot of reframing, summarizing, and then asking how you feel about things. Nothing gets done. Am I one of those people? Good God do I miss the days when I had the no social skills medical staff. How long am I going to survive in this system?

Just When You Thought Utah Was Bad...

2006-11-07T17:24:00.000-08:00

Everytime one of my friends from graduate school came to visit me out West the inevitable topic of Utah's backwards liquor laws came up. Private membership what? A sidecar really isn't a drink with brandy but an extra shot? What do you mean I have to finish one drink before I can order another? These are all typical questions that get asked.

When the Olympics debuted, the legislature acutally wisened up to the sound of cash pouring in vs. the word of wisdom and revised some of the laws. Note: some. I really couldn't specify which ones, but I do remember one drunk evening at the Zephyr with my brother being interviewed (drunk) by some foreign correspondent on camera. Liquor laws were such a hot topic, they actually did a feature on the issue.

I was so confused in my drunken state that I'm not certain if I actually looked at the interviewer or directly at the camera when answering his questions, which at the time I thought I was eloquent I'm sure. Looking at the camera seems to be rather lame looking directly into the lens, but that's probably what I did after a few vodka tonics....I also thought I was a hot dancer and was also captured on film. So now, somewhere in a European country visions of my terrible booty shaking, hips don't lie, I'm too sexy disco inferno, I live on tape in some back room of a video production house...or if I'm lucky, somewhere on the cutting room floor.

At any rate, I thought that once I left the State of Utah, life as an imbibing citizen would improve. I was so quick to jump and count my chickens before they hatched. It is true that you can buy alcohol in supermarkets and other locations that are not State owned in Indiana, however I was quite shocked and disappointed when I learned that buying liquor on Sundays is illegal. Hell, even in Utah you could buy beer in the grocery store on the day of rest.

Today, though, took the cake. I recieved an email from one of the local gourmet restaurants that advised me that they were canceling their wine pairing dinner tonight. Not that I was going, but I questioned the reason why. I read on to find that in Indiana it is illegal to sell alcohol on election days until after the polls officially close. Are you freaking kidding me??? How else are the losers going to soothe their defeat or the citizens toast the end of the mud slinging commercials?

Yes, my friends, in Utah the Democrats at least can sip their vino post voting.

Motivation what?

2006-10-24T13:01:00.000-07:00

I am currently playing a game I like to call, "What's my job?" I'm now on my fourth week at work, but three of them have consisted of me in a conference room for 8 hours a day learning about things like cultural competency. Hellooo? I'm a social worker. Really what it boiled down to was CYA techniques big companies like to employ for risk management. If they prove you've received training on a topic like confidentiality, they can fire you faster vs. buying the "I didn't know" excuse. Its a good thing to have, but not when you are on the receiving end. This however, is not the purpose of my entry.

Yesterday I unpacked my office and figured out my email system. That pretty much took up the day. You see, I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing. I have two executive secretaries so apparently I have a lot of meetings, but until I learn about those I'm rather clueless. The problem is, no one around me knows what I do because I'm supposed to be their leader and already know. The blind leading the oblivious.

Today I actually had two transition meetings with supervisees. One of my conversations went like this:

"So, you have four people directly reporting to you. All of them have very important jobs, but they can get monotonous at times. Tell me how you motivate your team." A nice way to start, I thought.

"Well, I don't really talk with them unless they screw up and their manager before trained them well so..." She looked at me sideways.

I tried to control my look of horror. Perhaps she misunderstood me.

"Supervision is an art. It involves feedback both positive and negative, but a really good supervisor keeps her team inspired. Tell me how you do that."

"Inspired?" Her brow furrowed.

Ok, my mental thesaurus began to spin while I was also calibrating her IQ level.

"Well, your staff are highly tenured, you know they have been here a while. Often times people will sit and stay for peace and pay. Does this make sense?" I paused and she nodded. "The years can often become blurred without innovation and support. Tell me how you positively reinforce their work and encourage them."

"Like I said, they don't really screw up..." She looked baffled like I had just handed her a quantum physics problem.

"Valued. Tell me how you convey to them how you value them as well as the quality of their work." She looked more assured and I thought I had finally made my point. She thought for a moment and then said:

"Well once I bought them lunch." She looked pleased with her answer and smiled.

I must have looked a little stunned because then she added confidently, "...with my own money."

Yup.

I suggested we begin meeting weekly for "coaching" shall we say.

Cultural Competency

2006-10-14T09:11:00.000-07:00

There are certain things that establishes culture. I'm not talking about race, religion, or gender. I'm talking about what differentiates each city and unites the people despite their other characteristics. Although I've only been here a short time, I've picked up on a few here in Indy.

1) Corn pesticide commercials are commonplace during the news.
2) John Cougar Mellencamp's birthday is regarded as an informal State holiday. BTW, it was last Saturday. If you do not like his music, do not listen to any of the radio stations in Indy because inevitably no matter if they are hip hop/jazz/rock/whatever, it is normal for "Shake Your Money Maker" by Ludacris to be followed by "Jack and Diane."
3) School speed zone signs are just there as decorations. No one actually follows them except the Utah native who has been flipped off numerous times as people zoomed passed.
4) Teeth are optional
5) The Pacer's shooting outside of a strip club coincided with their release of the "Its up to us," campaign to improve their image last week. This story in one form or another was the lead headline for DAYS just because there wasn't any other news.
6) Most everyone has worked for a factory or grew up on a farm
7) Peyton Manning endorses everything and is regarded as a local hero. (My husband did not know who this guy was in rounds and was made fun of until he called and asked me.)
8) If you are really cool, you have an official pace car from one of the past years Indy 500. People will stop you just to look at the car in parking lots.
9) Republicans rule here. Alas, I've moved to another Red State.

Desperate Housedogs

2006-10-07T08:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday marked the end of my first week at my new job. To celebrate the fact that I lasted 5 whole days, they reserved 2:00 - 4:00 for a welcome reception in my honor. I suspect it was really more so my employees could stop by and see who I was. I've only been in my building twice in the past week as they have had me in meetings, driving/getting lost around the city, and hobnobing with other management the rest of the time. I was looking forward to sitting in the staff lounge and see who showed up.

In between the party and meeting one of my program coordinators I decided to stop home for some lunch and to let Edgar out. I spent the morning in senior staffing, touring group homes (not the most uplifiting experience), and hanging out at the methadone clinic (very enlightening and entertaining). I got home and discovered houndini was back.

I will take accountability for this as my reinforcement methods were weak that morning because a) I was late, and b) I wanted to see if he was getting the concept and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Stupid me. Edgar had managed to chew up an orange highlighter on the white carpet, eat my thank you notes, destroy my jewelry box (no jewelry inside), and gnaw on a prescription bottle. As I was beginning my "bad dog" routine on Edgar, I mistook his closing eyes as him being sheepish. He then began to careen a bit and I realized something was off. He had a mushed yellow capsule stuck to his fur.

The pill bottle was his. It was the sedative the vet gave me just in case the card ride didn't go so smoothly, but since he was a dream dog we hadn't even cracked the seal. It seemed Edgar got a bit bored and pulled a Desperate Housewife move and o/d on the pills to help pass the time kind of like Lynette who started eating all of her children's Ritalin when she was coping (maladaptively, mind you) to being a stay at home mom when all she wanted to do was work in an office. I began to panic.

First I called work and explained to my boss, who happens to LOVE the addictions field, that Edgar and Lynette had some similarities and that I would not be in attendance of my own party as I was now rushing to the local pet ER. I left this all in a rambling message that no doubt probably left him rethinking his decision to hire me as my bits of crazy were just beginning to show. I then mapquested the one referral Ihad from our neighbor to vets and scooped Edgar off to the car.

I began to think about my previous life as a vet tech and remembering that this particular med caused dogs' blood pressure to drop and thus caused liver damage. I stepped on the gas a bit more firmly. The pet ER looked like a renovated funeral home, but whatever. The tech had hot pink hair, nose rings, and like most Indiana natives, reeked of cigarette smoke.

"I am a terrible mom," I announced handing the chewed up pill bottle to the tech while Edgar slept soundly in my arms like a limp rag doll, "We just moved and he pulled a houndini, ate a highlighter and these. I used to be a vet tech so I know how stupid you think I am as a pet owner, but he needs help and I'm beginning to think the worst like liver damage."

The tech and other customers looked at the crazy woman standing there. "These things happen." And she showed me into an exam room.

Edgar began to rouse a bit and would go from falling asleep to waking up, realizing where he was, shake with fear uncontrollably, and then drift back off to sleep. This happened about 10x before the vet came in. She called him a handsome fellow, examined him, reassured me, double checked the dosage/weight and announced she needed to call the prescribing vet for the exact amount of original pills. Great. Now both states would know I'm a neglectful mother. At least J wouldn't know. He was on call and wouldn't be home until tomorrow morning. I began to imagine the "I told you so's" regarding where the pill bottle was located and my terrible engineering skills for barricades.

Just as the vet came in my phone rang.

"Where are you? I came home for an hour nap and Edgars missing. Looks like he destroyed some stuff."

Great. "We're in the Pet ER. I'll have to call you back. Edgar overdosed."

"Is he ok? Are you ok?"

"Yeah. The vet's here. Let me go talk with her." I pretty much hung up on him.

The vet smiled and announced Edgar was within dosing range, but extremely high on that scale and we could be sent home with a steroid shot and promise of close observation until midnight.

I took Edgar, the sleeping puppy, home. The doped up dog curled up to my sleep deprived husband.

"I'm so sorry I let this happen. I promise I will be a very good mother of our future children."

He began to laugh. "Yeah, this is what we hear all the time in our ER. 'I don't know what happened. I left the room for a quick second while he was playing with the pills and then they were gone!'"

"You won't have to call social services on me, I promise." I said, " I really will be a good mom."

"Yeah, by that time you will probably be in charge of social services." He laughed.

Cross to Bear

2006-10-03T07:44:00.000-07:00

When I was little I would do sleepovers at my grandparent's house. There are certain things I remember about my visits. Grandpa would always get up before dawn and make orange juice/banana shakes for breakfast. Grandma would do loads of laundry because my brother would inevitably slide down dirt hills and fall into ponds. Grandpa would make paper airplanes. And that their bed was always made with a cruifix above their heads.

My Grandmother was devout Catholic and my Grandfather was a recovering Mormon. As long as he didn't have to accompany the family to church every Sunday he was fine with them being raised with the Holy Trinity. I really think he is more of the agnositc/atheist category. And yes, this is the angry-last-sacrament-didn't-work-because-I'm-still-alive-the-next-morning-Grandmother, and "good luck" Grandfather.

When my Grandmother died, Grandpa embraced his bachelorhood. The cupboards are empty, fridge bare (save for a few deli fried chicken pieces, iceberg lettuce, oj, and hotdogs), and no stinkin' cleaning lady was coming in because he said, "I don't make dirt." As time has passed, my Grandma's presence is making a comeback. Before I left Salt Lake I noticed a photo of her reappearred in the living room. I really missed that photo and was glad to see it back.

My Grandpa has relocated the cruifix, however. It now resides in the laundry room. I suppose the fabric softener is truly blessed now. Not really certain why it is there and I doubt he could tell me why other than, "It seemed like a good place," or something like that.

I mention the cruifix only in light of my recent proclaimation of faith and marriage. I am getting used to things like sharing the fridge with a vat of lagered beer waiting to be bottled, sharing a laundry basket which now doubles its size in half the time, and sharing a bed with yes, a cruifix on the wall above our heads. This is not my cruifix nor my cross to bear.

It seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

The morning that I was leaving on my 3 day trek across flatland USA, my father was misty-eyed. He looked like a lost puppy watching my mother and me load the car. He wasn't particuarly sad about me leaving, but more so Edgar. To me his parting words were, "Have a nice life."

"Dad! Have a nice life?! That's like saying, 'Good Luck!'"

Yup, apples and their kin. No matter if I change my last name, my paternity shines through.

Wedding Photos

2006-10-01T17:49:00.000-07:00

My wedding photos just showed up on my photographer's blog. Of every expense for the wedding, finding Davina was worth every penny.

http://illtakeapictureofthat.blogspot.com/

Hoosier Houndini

2006-09-29T10:20:00.000-07:00

It seems the escape artist is making his comeback. After the wedding, honeymoon, and really really long drive to Indy while reading the Dog Whisperer's book, Caesar's Way, Edgar is up to his ways again.

I introduced him to his "den," aka the kitchen, upon arrival making sure that I was the alpha leading him into the house. We then set up barricades with wedding gift boxes and barstools to let him settle in. That night we left him only once to take my Mom to her hotel and when we came back all was well in Hoosierville. He cried when we left him in his den for bedtime, but that ended shortly as well.

Yesterday, feeling very encouraged, I left again for about 30 minutes. I set up the barricade just like the night before. When I came home, Edgar greeted me at the door, chewed up CD case all over the living room floor. Houndini was back! This was even after his two walks (to help his migrating instinct and tire him out) as well as a rousing game of fetch which ended when he was too hot and laid down on top of the ball. So much for Caesar.

Houndini made his first appearance when I lived back in SLC. I would leave him for work barricaded in the kitchen. First I used a very expensive x-pen (aka movable metal fences/playpen for dogs.) He figured out how to use his paw to either push or pull them so he could get out. He was always sitting in the window sill when I came home. So then I used chairs to reinforce the x-pen. Again, Edgar used his clever wits to pull the chairs then the x-pen and voila! The x-pen went back to Petco.

I resorted to Home Depot. Plywood, foam insulation tape to protect the floor, and cinder blocks. Ah ha! He was foiled! Until.... one day I came home and thought it smelled so nice! It smelled just like the lemongrass vacuum beads from Restoration Hardware I had used to clean two days ago, but surely that scent couldn't have been that strong, I thought to myself. When I opened the back door I found a very proud canine. He had somehow figured out how to jump on the kitchen counters, tear open the vacuum beads bag, knock over the sugar bowl, eat all of my garden produce and spit it out, chew up the sponge, knock over the knives, dig up the potted geranium in my window sill, eat my check register, and knock over my cookbooks. (See photos.)

Now I knew I couldn't yell at him as I've read dogs live in the moment and will not corrleate punishment with deeds unless you do it right in the act. For instance, grounding a dog or withholding dog park priveledges will not work. But oh, I was mad and he was just happy to see me.

When J proposed to me in January, he knew Edgar was part of the package and he loved him too. However, I worried how he would handle his alter-ego, Houndini! Last night we left again and J constructed the barricade. It was now a battle of wits between him and the dog. But when we came home, Houndini rested in the kitchen without tearing the house apart. Perhaps Monday when I go to work won't be too bad, or perhaps I'm deluding myself.

Shotgun Confirmation

2006-09-11T19:42:00.000-07:00

The last two weeks leading to the wedding have got to be hell on earth. Last week I finally pulled together all of my necessary documentation for the Catholic Church in order to my fiance and I to actually marry. Baptism records, pre cana weekend certificates, affidavits of faith, and a natural family planning class certificate. I thought we had everything in. On Thursday the parish secretary tells me we have a problem.
"I don't have your confirmation record."
"Yes, I'm not confirmed."
"But you are Catholic?"
"Yes."
"But you are not confirmed."
"Right."
"Yup, we have a problem."

When Father Stan and I began this process months ago he said getting babtized in the Escipopalian church wouldn't be an issue eventhough I had my first holy communion and confession at St. Ambrose. I beleived him. But now I wasn't so certain and I called him.
His response was perfect type B Father Stan: "Stupid beroucrats.. I fix. I call you back, We do Procalmation of Faith"

I called the church back and the secretary said that somehow the fathers talked and all is ok. Just some small paperwork needs to get done. Be here on Tuesday with a sponsor. I interjected that I was bringing my first holy communion certificate and that is when she stopped and said, "Oh no, honey, you are getting confirmed."

I talked to Father Stan about that time and he said we would just do proclaimation of faith, no big deal and be done. As I recall, several younger generations must take classes months before Easter and then be with their sponsor in order for it to go through. No week classes for me

Nope. For me. I'm showing up with my Dad to Our Lady of Lourdes tomorrow at 10:00 AM I can't believe Dad agreed to be my sponsor. Neither of us knows where to find the Nicean Creed. There is only one response that is appopriate to this. "Lord, hear our prayer.".

Girlyfriends

2006-09-06T12:41:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I spent an incredible 48 hours with my best friend. She is also my maid/matron of honor. It was our version of a bachelorette party. Just us, some wine, great restaurants, a pool, and of course, a spa.

There are things that girlfriends do that your spouse or significant other just can't. Weekends away truly lets you indulge in these and it simply fills your soul.

1) Girls can gab with the lights out until one of them falls asleep. Guys typically fall asleep quite fast and don't want to hear about the latest gossip or process the fall out you had at work/home/etc.

2) Girls can be caddy. At one point in time we began giving nicknames to those we saw around us. "Lashes" was the older woman with huge fake eyelashes, cowboy boots, and some sheer animal print blouse. We commented about the lovely turquoise couple who had matching shorts/tee shirt/hat ensemble. And truly who could forget the 10 year old in kitten heels and a tank top to show off her training bra? (We criticized the parent on that one.)

3) You can reminisce about past boyfriends and mistakes you made without having someone feel threatened.

4) Its perfectly acceptable for matching nail polish.

5) Attempting to tie cherry stems into a knot with your tongue is ok (even if you can't do it anymore and your last successful attempt was in 1995.)

6) PJ's, sleeping in separate beds, eating chocolate cake and watching chick flicks is a nightly occurrence.

7) You have someone to giggle with about how strange an herbal wrap is and if Helga or Tatiana were better suited for the massage profession.

8) You can appreciate the beauty of the mountains of Snowbird and not have to conquer them with a hellacious hike or bike ride up to the top, but just sit by the pool.

Perhaps if I were younger I would have enjoyed more of the bar scene with a pretend veil covered with obscene objects and wait for guys to buy me shots. This was something more my speed, and something I hope will become an annual tradition.

We've Got Spirit, Yes We Do!!!

2006-08-27T16:17:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I've reached a new low. I just spent the first hour and a half of J's absence watching "Making the Squad." Let me clarify. Making the Colt's squad.

Back in junior high I actually was campaign manager twice for two girls both "running" for cheerleader. (Could you have predicted my bachelors being poli sci at this point, not so much, but the irony is funny.) They both won.

As I watched the girls "interview" post dance routine (aka, shaking their booties and flipping their hair in time to the hip hop), I was astounded. Not by their answers like, "Oh my god, I just want whirled peas," but more by their names. I actually watched the end to see who made the team and what their daytime profession is. Hillari, Stacee, Megin, Destini, Tiphanie...well, you get the point. Most "Destini's," "Celestial's," and "Nevaeh's" (heaven spelled backwards) I know are allegeded sexual assault victims, not cheerleaders. I almost fell off the couch when one of them claimed they were a social worker. Most of them were office managers, interior designers, senior property managers, or students. I noticed a few of them actually tried out in their sorority sweat shirts, after all, DePaw University in Indiana has the largest Greek system in the Nation. It also happens to be the birth place of my sorority, Alpha Chi Omega. Two of them had Delta Gamma sweat shirts on...the known "prettiest" sorority on campus at the U of Utah. Could we ever get away from this popularity contest? What was worse, I apparently somehow identified with them as I was in a sorority and I was a social worker. Good hell, please tell me this is a nightmare!!!

I thought when I had made it to my professional career, all of that was behind me. Not a freekin' chance. One of the health unit coordinators was trying out for the Utah Jazz squad. She considered me a friend. One day, when it was slow, she did her try out routine in the middle of the hallway between patient rooms. All I could do was say, "Wow." Not because it was horrible. Her plastic surgeon would have been proud the way she moved her chest and thighs. I said, "wow," because on some level I was jealous. I would never want to be her. I would just like to be able to move like she did (and I suspect all of my ex-boyfriends and fiance would have liked me to have been able to move that way too.) It was sexy routine and not at all appropriate for a children's' hospital. Moreover, I couldn't understand how her husband (a Notre Dame grad) was ok with her trying out showing her moves to thousands of horny men staying actually watching the half time show at games with binoculars vs. making the most of the time in between sports time and running to the loo. It wasn't too far from the male domestic violence offenders group I once ran when the guys were getting together after the judicial mandatory group to go to a local strip club to watch one of their wives perform. (I'm so not kidding about this...I actually got invited to come along.)

Will high school ever end?

Me, Myself and I

2006-08-25T18:25:00.000-07:00

There are things that, although great, tend to lose their luster when you are by yourself. (Now, now, children, please get your mind out of the gutter.) Perhaps this entry is just because I'm a bit lonely, but then I really think, "I'm not THAT lonely." I'm betting its just anticipatory loneliness. Tonight is one of three nights sans my love.

I'm back in Indy for some stupid physical. Can you believe that they actually want to make sure I'm a Nancy Reagan wanna be with "just say no" and have absolutely no illegal substances in my system before handing me a multi million dollar budget to manage and a large staff? Crazy thinking, I know. However the fact remains that I'm still using all of my paid time off that was supposed to be saved for my wedding time off only to be here in Indy. Which, again, would be fine if only my lover were here with me. Ah no, he is off working the night shifts (or shits, as I like to call them) at our local neonatal intensive care units.

Tonight I made myself a large dinner. It was the first time I'd cooked in weeks seeing that I'm now with ma and pa for the interim. I roasted lemon pepper chicken and did some thyme/rosemary potatoes. It would have been a lot more fun if he would have been here to enjoy the meal. Instead I found myself not at the table with an elegant place setting, but standing up picking meat off the carcass with my fingers and chugging a beer while watching some re-run of Raymond. Good hell, I've lost my manners.

Well thought out meals alone really aren't a bowl full of cherries. Come to think of it, neither is splitting a dessert. I've tried this to con myself into thinking I'm saving myself 1/2 of the calories, but then I end up finishing it off then and there realizing that I'll just eat it later. Even wearing matching lingerie isn't all that fun unless someone else discovers that it was done intentionally. Its not like you can surprise yourself when you undress (that is unless you have dementia or something like that.) Like I said, some things lose their luster when you are by yourself.

What's in store now? I have movies I've rented, but they aren't much fun without at least a dog to snuggle up with. I could take a bath. I could read. I could call friends. All of these things don't push the inevitable...that I could be in Salt Lake just as easy as being in Indy because tonight, I'm going to bed solo. Bummer.

The Price of Self-Worth

2006-08-11T16:27:00.000-07:00

Today has been like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. I knew I had last round interviews for my position here in the afternoon. Talk about a sinking feeling. We had the top three candidates come back to sit with the staff and answer their questions. Already there was a strong bias due to some unpolitically friendly lobbying by senior staff members, and so as much as we made the rating sheet objective, the personal glare was obvious. Again, this team demonstrated once again that although they are change agents, they themselves hate change; they believe tenure = entitlement; and they still hate there is a business aspect to health care. They want someone to "understand" them, perhaps not do what's best for them. It was fascinating as an observer who isn't putting a vote in, to witness the group process.

Perhaps I was dissociating from it. I listened to their percieved challenges and vision and heard a lot of white noise. Mostly it was because I was offered a job in Indy this morning. As I listened to their answers (some canned text book, others genuine) I thought of myself in this process just a week ago. How did I sound? Do I really know what I'm doing? Will they understand that I feel like a fraud as in, "Don't pay attention to the man behind the curtain," Wizard of Oz syndrome? I remember thinking once my answer came out of my mouth, "Holy cow, perhaps I do know what to do in this situation." And other times I felt like I was faking it. However, by the end of the 10th round of interviews, (yes folks, you read correctly, 10), I didn't care one way or another.

This morning when they extended the offer I asked one very important question: Is that the best you can do? They told me to name a price and I did. Surprisingly they called me back within 30 minutes saying they would match my number and also agreed to my start date after my honeymoon and week moving time. It was all said and done so fast I couldn't believe it. Was I really worth that much? I never thought, "Gee I should have asked for more!" Nope, I thought, "Holy cow, how am I going to prove I was a good investment? What if I fail?" I never had negotiations go that easy before. Typically, I found companies not really willing to agree. It was a fight to get my current salary and even here, I feel like a fraud at times (although thefrequency is becoming less and less.)

They say that women have a hard time putting a price on their worth. Even when we can and do put a price on things, we still doubt if we're worth it. Yup, that feminism hasn't really pushed us that far ahead...

Deja Vu Reruns

2006-08-08T14:00:00.000-07:00

I must have moved in and out of my parents' house about 9 or 10 times since I was 18. Either I was fiercely independent and sponsored my own rent in the dorms or sorority house, or I was coming back home because the semester ended. Once, I was literally abandoned by an ex-boyrfriend of mine. It was his way of breaking up with me by leaving me with dust bunnies and my furniture still in the apartment. My father moved me out in 2 hours. Go Dad! After being on my own for 7 years, I am now living once again at my parents.

My house rented to a very nice couple from the U.K.. Both are physics professors. I handed over the keys to them yesterday. Moving is such a sad experience. Seeing your stuff packed in boxes, watching the movers shrink wrap the couch for storage, and watching "your" house become empty absolutely sucks. On the other hand, it gives great cause to purge. I had a whole Jeep filled with things for charity and 3 garbage cans to the brim with stuff. Even Edgar was depressed and moped around. My fiance always pauses to ask if I am the one who is depressed and moped, but I assure you, it was the dog. He just sat in his bed (which he never does), ears back, and looking forlorn. After one day of this I took him to my parents' to play with the other dogs.

My mother has been a saint through this. She was the one who got the bids from the movers as I was either interviewing in Indy or at work. She was the one who helped me pack in 100 degree heat one solid Saturday. She was the one who came over moving day bright and early with bagels to direct the movers while I ran to a meeting. I owe her the world.

My father has been rather controlling. He saw no reason to move the bed downstairs and that if I was staying at their house I could stay upstairs in the bedroom next to theirs. My brother helped me disassemble the bed and haul it down two flights of stairs as my father watched TV in protest. I now live in the basement. Sure, I have a few wolf spiders to deal with, but I get my own bathroom and my own living area. Another interesting fact is that my pseudo-bedroom is my mom's pilate room so I have one whole wall floor to ceiling mirrors. All I need is a glitter ball and some smooth disco and I think I'd have a set for SNL's The Ladies Man.

My parents knew I would be home more, but they weren't counting on my brother. He apparently moved recently and hates his new place so 9x out of 10 he is hanging out at my parents. We've actually had more family dinners the past few days than we have in years. My delusional fantasy is that he's hanging out more with me before I move, but then I just have to remember a year ago when he moved in with me and it was an utter failure. Delusion.

We'll see what the next 40 days/nights bring. Perhaps I'll bond and appreciate my parents more. Perhaps I'll be wanting to drive to Indy so fast it will make heads spin. What I am hoping is that it will be absolutely the very last possible chance I will ever live at home again.

Go East, Pioneer!

2006-07-24T08:58:00.000-07:00

Why is it that I am always moving the warmestmonth of the year? When I moved back to Utah and into an apartment with aboyfriend, it was over the 4th of July. I again chose that lovely weekendwhen I moved into my house two years ago. This year, I'm packing up overthe Days of '47 weekend. Oh yes, it is the annual State holiday ofhandcarts and bonnets. As I sit among my cardboard jungle, the TV is onwith the parade in the background.

People camp out for days just to reserve a good spot on the parade route. I just heard our governor say something about how this parade celebrates ourdiversity and spirit. Diversity? Everyone looks white to me. Thereare tons of missionaries on the floats and floats made by the Mormons at theirlocal ward or stake center (aka their church). The floats look swallowedwhole by the large wide streets that Brigham Young created so that the wagonscould do a U turn without a problem. Spirit? The Churchheadquarters actually gives money to the stake centers for costs of creatingthe floats in the religious themes and then "calls" their followersto make the floats. Only in Utah. Ah, side thought: how didthe tradition of teenage girls twirling recreations of rifles in a marchingband get started?

I'm also on call this morning. I couldn't get anyone to take theshift. I joked that we would have an onslaught of handcart traumas. Probably more heat exhaustion or fireworks injuries, but that will be later inthe evening. Perhaps I might land a teen girl getting hit in the head byone of those wooden rifles as well with a twirl gone bad.

Sorting out what to take to Indy and what to keep in storage in Utah has been aprocess. Whenever I have doubt I think of my fiancé and his tendency tohang on to everything. It makes it a very easy decision to get rid ofthings. However when I think of the spatial disparity, I getnervous. I have a lot more boxes going vs. staying. Hard to thinkhow this is all going to play out when I get there with the back room stillfilled with his stuff.As I watch the floats sponsored by a religious conglomerate, recreations ofhandcarts, local high school marching bands, themes of Jell-O, covered wagons,large families created in the name of God, hardships by the pioneers, bees,crickets, sweets (yes, we love our sugar here), and glitter covered statues ofJesus, I can't help but think I'll actually miss theState. As quirky as it is, it is still home.

Nordies

2006-07-20T12:13:00.000-07:00

Monday afternoon after work, mom and I decided to hit the Nordstrom sale. It was a good opportunity to hit the fall fashions for the mother of the bride. We made our trek out to Fashion Place and headed for the petite department. After looking at dresses that resembled moo-moos and luau inspired wear a sales associate approached us and did indeed confirm that there was nothing of the mother of the bride caliber in that dept but to head downstairs to savvy. So we did. These clothes are made for tall skinny people, but with the hopes of a tailor, we attempted to choose outfits. A black skirt here, a little dress there, some taffeta and frilly sweaters. Our selections were all over the place as the typical mother of the bride wear just doesn't fit my mom.

When you think mother of the bride, I begin to envision Diane Keaton in the movie all polished in a champagne colored suit. My mom typically wears golf shirts, shorts and flip flops. Most of the color schemes are red and black. Black is the typical color for her dress up wear. She looks good in black. However, a funeral and a wedding should be two separate events...unless you are mourning the loss of someone figuratively.

The outfits went from bad to worse. Pants that swallowed her whole and ran two feet beyond her toes on the floor, sweaters that knitting patterns resembled spider webs, and "short" skirts that hit her mid calf. The best outfit (aka the funniest) was the aqua taffeta outfit. A spaghetti strap tank, long skirt and a jacket. The skirt hit her right about her rib cage, the tank was too long and exposed way too much and the jacket arms enveloped her hands. Not to mention seeing my mom in aqua was hilarious. We were both laughing so hard we were crying and others in the dressing room began to ask us what was so funny.

Ann Taylor was equally age inappropriate. Bohemian mother of the bride just wasn't fitting in. Where the hell was that champagne suit? We did find a chocolate brown pants suit that looked stunning and put it on hold at another store. We hoped there was something in her closet that would work. Not so much. Even though the 80's are apparently back (see Nordstrom anniversary sale catalogue complete with leg warmers, off the shoulder sweaters, and skinny jeans that tuck into boots), the black suit dress with the big lapels and gold broach from 1989 just didn't cut it. However I digress.

After shopping for mom we decided to shop for "fundamentals" for my wedding gown. As we headed in to Vickie's S, I could already tell I wasn't impressed. The sales girl seemed confused by what we needed and kept remeasuring me over and over again. I tried on size after size. Corsets, strapless, convertible straps, etc. Finally they brought me what looked like a tube top with boning. I couldn't get it past my calves when mom and I again burst into giggles. We were done with this gig. As I was leaving the dressing room, the sales clerk seemed disappointed as she truly was in for the challenge. But I finally told her, "I just think that the girls are going to go free." She gasped, turned red, and started to laugh. The customer behind her didn't know what to do. I don't think anyone has ever said that to her.

We actually ventured back to Nordstrom. Found the ideal "foundation asset." I just needed to try it on. As we stood in line for a dressing room I saw way more than I was bargaining for. I completely forgot Mormons wear their undergarments outside of their temple garments. Its truly amazing they have so many kids with that ugly of a look going on. It doesn't exactly say, "come hither."

In one dressing room there was a lady about 70 years old. She looked a bit butch with her short spiked hair, no make up, and sagging but large body. The sales girl was a bit cheeky. She closed the door and the following conversation ensued:

"You are a triple D."

"I am not."

"Ok, you can call it a F if you'd like. Now, it seems that you are wearing your under wire a bit low. It should be right under here."

"Whoa! That doesn't feel right!"

"Yes, well, welcome to the world of support."

At that point in time I just had to walk away because I was laughing so hard. Ah, Nordstrom: customer service at its finest.

Smooth, yeah that's me

2006-07-14T07:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I completed round two of interviews for a management job here in Indy. The first was on Monday morning. I arrived early. The office itself was 1970's mental health...you know, the really feel good uplifting ambiance of olive green painted metal furniture and dark wood paneling. Remember, its mental health. I don't know if its a function of the lack of funding in the area or just more assurance that if we keep our clients depressed, there is job security.

The office manager who was my one and only contact was friendly and began with the Miss so and so in addressing me. It was a flashback to the South. She brought me to a conference room where another woman, with an employee badge and folders was waiting. I introduced myself and she identified herself as one of the clinical coordinators. She was in her late 40's with a really frizzy platinum blond perm and a seer sucker suit. The assistant came back with goodies she had stopped off getting at the grocery to make the "conversational style" interview feel informal. She also brought me coffee.

As the clinic person and I sat there, she explained we were waiting for others and so I offered her my resume. She took it, looked it over and began to ask me questions. What was I doing now? Why this job? Why Indy? I fired some back at her. What was she in charge of? How is the program doing? What about past audits? That's when two other individuals came in with official folders, sat down, and introduced themselves. They were the ones conducting the interviews.

What the? Who was this permed Madonna wannabe looking like she was going on a sailing adventure? She was my COMPETITION as an internal candidate! As the administrative director began to diagram the organizational structure, I interrupted laughing (how else was I supposed to play this one off) and apologized that I mistook the imposer (not the word I used) as part of the panel. I can't believe I handed her my resume. Really smooth. Moreover, I can't believe she took it. Poser.

As the interview progressed I realized that if I were to get this job, I would be her boss. Oh holy cow. Conversational style, my ass. And I thought my current company was intimidating making people interview in front of panels...this one took the cake by interviewing you with your competition. I thought I did really well with my answers. I did a lot of research and prep work days before. Apparently so did my competition. It got rather embarrassing after a while when she would answer first, I would go second and then she would rebuttal her first answer. When it was reversed and I would answer first I just left it at that. The interview lasted an hour and a half. There weren't any behavior questions or written questions. More like, "Let's pretend we were philosophic strategic planners. What would you say the trends might be in mental health in 10 years? Go."

I must of passed, because the administrative assistant called me that afternoon with a, "Ooh, they loved you girl. Miss so and so, you will love working for my boss!" I got invited back to a second interview for Thursday. It was lunch with the CEO and other administrative director who was technically on a FMLA with surgery but was coming in specifically for the interview.

The CEO reminded me of my very first administrative director. A rather round woman who used her size to express her confidence. Kind heart, sharp mind. The other director looked like one of the renal doctors at the hospital. This woman was a true get to the point woman. There were no polite exchanges before she launched in to direct questions about my knowledge of SAMSHA, name my biggest blunder, what would my boss/employees say about me, what are my strengths/weaknesses, what is my vision. All the CEO asked me was, what would it take to get you here. Mind you, they had lunch, my plate sat full while I talked the whole time. The cool thing was we went to a bistro that was run by clients in their mental health program. It was busy, yummy food, and a hip place to be. The employees knew the directors and truly took pride in what they did.

By the end of the interview I pretty much thought I had it. They kept referring to things as my staff and then went on to comment about the internal candidate who just didn't have the vision but had the most potential of the clinical supervisors and if I saw it fit to mentor her and promote her in the future, that would be my choice. I think its safe to say I have it. She ended the interview discussing benefits and said HR would be in touch for other issues, hoped that with all the other opportunities that they could secure me.

One would have thought I felt relieved. I felt joyous. But I also felt panicked. My fiance just thought there was a deadline on that back room to be cleared out. Try moving that up two months.

Pink and Blue

2006-07-12T06:42:00.000-07:00

Funny how we associate colors with gender identity. No right minded parent would paint a little boy's room pink. (Although we did have a rush of pink casts last summer for the 8-12 aged boys in the ortho dept of the hospital.) Gender identity is a big deal.

My fiance recently pointed out that when you visit the gender studies section of the local Barnes and Noble, most books are feminist theory based. Rarely do you find a male pov unless of course its male bashing. If you have been following my "what I'm reading" profile, you may have noticed quite a few feminist authors. I've been picking up Margaret Atwood (famous for The Handmaids Tale), Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women by Elizabeth Wurtzel, and The Bitch in the House by Cathy Hanauer. I've been craving other womens' pov about marriage, independence, men, sex, finances, and power. Turns out I wasn't the only one craving this type of knowledge.

I ventured to Indiana on the red eye this past weekend for job interviews this week. (Thats a complete separate entry to come) My fiance, who never gets enough sleep, is working terrible ward months, and should be studying for step 3 medical boards, made a recent purchase entitled, Fire in the Belly: On Being a Man by Sam Keen. I couldn't help but smile. No wonder we've been declaring war on every little decision lately. Both of us have been empowering our own sense of individuality and identity through our respective gender studies so no longer is the fight about the invitations really about the invitations. Oh no, it is so much bigger than that.

Everything becomes a battle about the sense of "me" in the "we." Questions arise if our styles will mesh, blend, and somehow become one while still retaining our inner cores. Yesterday I spent the day in the condo going mad. Normally I take pride in doing the small domestic stuff that is nurturing for my guy, stuff that he really doesn't have time to do. I do laundry, polish off the hard water stains in the shower, dust, etc.. The first time I did this was exactly one year ago and he almost broke into joyous tears when he got home. That was extremely rewarding. I did it again in March.

Like I said, I went mad yesterday. My impulse was to embark in the cleaning ritual and organization, but I found myself getting pissed. Did he even make an effort to straighten things before I got here? Was it now an expectation that I clean? Was he entrapping me back to the house like an unliberated female? Was I expected to be the superwoman the feminist revolution created by being a high powered executive and the homemaker? Hell, no!

Now I began to pace. When he visited me in April did he offer to do any of the male tasks to make my life easier while I was at work like mow the lawn? Nope. He sketched, journaled, went to visit his parents. Selfish bastard. In fact, when I asked for a few hours by myself that week in April I spent it doing things like mowing the lawn while he watched the sunset with a beer. Now I was really pissed. Was I expected to take care of everything? How in the hell did he become this overbearing guy? (Note all the projection going on.)

I turned back to my therapist roots. Mom. His mother is to blame. That woman was the superwoman putting herself through graduate school as a single mom to two kiddos. This must have formulated his being and view of what a woman should be. He once told me that his mother made him begin to pump the gas when he was 8 years old. Was it instilling responsibility or molding him to be the man of her house. (Note I didn't say "the" house, but "her" house.) Was part of the pain him psychologically removing himself as the pseudo head of the household in his family of origin and transferring it to our sense of family?

Every friend I've talked with has pain with their MIL (aka Mother in Law). Every guy has been a mama's boy. They say that you want to find a guy who treats his mother like gold, because that is how they will treat you. However, that transfer of love, loyalty, and identity is painful and it takes a very long time. Every friend has sworn that they will never ever be like their MIL with their sons and when it comes time for marriage, they will easily let their sons go. Famous last words, right? Perhaps we do marry our respective parents.

Ok, back to the story of yesterday. So I did realize I was on the edge. By 3:00 I was raging. I did an hour of yoga to center myself, but that failed. As I wandered the small condo I realized that my fiance had not cleared out space for me. The closets were full, the back room still full of boxes, alcohol, a space to dry laundry, a CO2 tank for his brew master hobby, and various odd purchases like muppet finger puppets from Christmas 2004 for "gifts." He knows I'm moving here. What the hell?!? The message was clear: he hasn't made room for ME in his life/space/etc and is resistant to it.

The words of my MIL from a lunch back in May echoed, "Oh no," she said as I told her about the back room, "You will move back there to that room of boxes because he doesn't throw anything out." At the time I poo pooed it and assured her it would be cleared and ready for me. The words, "I told you so," began to echo. I called my girlfriend in SF to calm me down. She normalized the whole thing and told me I had to calm down before he got home.

When my fiance arrived at 5:30 he met a not so rageful female, but an upset one none the less. While he was happy to be home and see me, I was edgy. Within about 10 minutes I explained why I was upset and he began to rub his eyes (a stressful response he normally has). He was doing just fine listening to me go on and on, some tears, and my cry for action.

I pointed out that if I got the job I've been interviewing for, I could move as early as August. He said he would have the back room for me, but no progress had been made but a few boxes, I pointed out. He weighed the safety of this next statement and then took the risk, "You know, worst thing is you get back here and we just put your stuff in with my stuff to sort out later." Later?!? I walked away in anger trying to be calm. Later?!? To which I then replied, "If that happens, I will envoke the right to purge." The red flashing button was pushed for both of us and he reacted. My calm mild mannered guy exploded for one small moment and then returned to his quiet self, although still hostile. I broke first and apologized. Not necessarily for the message, but the timing.

We weren't fighting about some stupid cubic feet. We were fighting about our stuff, its right to be in a place and stake our claim. We may as well have been peeing in the back room marking our territory. Nope, we were fighting about how our stuff represents who each of us are as individuals. I didn't have the right to throw any of him away just as I was worried he wasn't making any room for me.

Today I'm back in the condo while he is on call. We came to the agreement that I could take my action oriented self and begin to breakdown empty boxes and organize the space, but I couldn't throw anything away. I respect that. I see moving as a great opportunity to purge things and keep things that are truly important. For instance, the love letters I have hung onto for years seemed to be so easy to throw away last weekend, but I had to do it on my terms and with my timing. I suppose the same thing goes for him and his sense of incorporation and purging of things/symbols of who he is and who he wants to be.

Banana-fanna-fo-fanna

2006-06-30T13:45:00.000-07:00

When I was younger and rageful against my brother, I remember a fight where I told him that I couldn't wait to get married and change my name so I wouldn't be associated with him anymore. He cried and told me it was the worst thing I could have possibly said. His tears took me aback. I just thought my statement was the same as telling him he had cooties or something. Apparently it held a lot more weight than I thought.

By the time I hit my early twenties I was certain I would keep my maiden name. After all, this is my identity. Mind you, I had no super suitors at this point in time asking for my hand in marriage, but I was prepared! Most of my girlfriends who got married at this point in their lives did the hyphen thing. By the time graduate school ended I had then made the rule that if I wasn't married by the time I had my LCSW, then I was just going to keep my maiden name. Again, it was an identity issue.

I found that this is a hot topic for guys. Every single guy I've ever dated thought it was a HUGE deal. They wanted their future wife to take their name. The only logical argument given to me was the confusion for the children with parents of two separate names. There were kids in school growing up who had the hyphenated last name taking after their mothers, but I always wondered if their dads' had the hyphen and took their wives' names as well.

My cousin's husband (the one who is running for prom queen of the mommies) actually took her name. They did it actually because he didn't like his biological dad and they thought they would carry on my uncle's legacy. Ironically, they only have daughters and don't plan on having any other children.

As the time approaches for me to be seriously considering this issue, wouldn't you know I found a guy who truly doesn't care if I take his name or not. He asked why would I take his name? This is a really good question. Its not like my status in the alphabet will improve. When I was a kid I liked the fact that I was always at the first part of the alphabet. Now I would be downgrading from a "B" to a "G."

Another factor to consider is how the whole name would sound together. Rhyming names are the worst like Julia Goolia in the Wedding Singer or Davey McGrady, my aunt. Fortunately for me, I don't have to worry about this particular problem.

Another issue could be a name that acutally conjures an image. Take, for instance, Dusty Housepan, Mitt Baton, or Gayle Wind. Or worse, those that sound like they belong in bad B movies or adult films. (Use your imagination here) Again, I don't have to worry about this.

For awhile I dated mostly ethic men. Given the first and last name potential combos I sounded like I should be a guy from the Middle East or out of Aladdin. What a shocker to get me, blue eyed, blondish straight haired female. Names on resumes typically give away the cultural identity. Only in Utah would you expect a girl named Charonne or Sheree and have her be white. Ah, but I digress...

For my names, hyphenating sounds awful. Its like swallowing and regurgitating too many vowels. And then there is the spelling issue. Everyone mispronounces my fiance's last name (including the priest who officiated his uncle's funeral). Generally, you always have to spell it out for people. This isn't a new challenge for me as I have to always spell out my first name for people because there are so many ways of spelling it. But do I really want to spell out both my first and last name?

The thing that gets me hung up is the tradition thing. Now that I'm established in my career I really could care less what my last name is. Funny, you would expect the opposite. I worry about the kids and really hyphenating is out of the question. But, I have been my name for 30+ years. Perhaps it will all come down to the issue of me taking on the hurdle of legal changes vs. being lazy. Do I really have time to sit in the Social Security office for hours?

Martyrdom

2006-06-29T14:09:00.000-07:00

Today I began to reflect upon this topic and my past entry about people causing wars over beliefs. I actually decided to google the topic and came across the standard definition about someone dying for their convictions or faith. I could list a few off the top of my head, namely Joan of Arc, but there were lists at the bottom of the page of others.

I was surprised to see Joseph Smith on the list. I guess it fits as he was killed from gunfire falling from the prision window. What shocked me was to find other names on the shared list: Harvey Milk, Gwen Araujo, and Matthew Shepard. These are all martyrs of the gay, lesbian, and transgendered population. Who would have thought that they would all be classified as being similar? I wondered if Joseph would turn in his grave knowing that he shared common ground with those who stood so firmly against what his church believes?

Relationship Punctuation

2006-06-27T11:13:00.000-07:00

Its amazing to me how fear can manifest itself. The past few weeks have been a bit rocky for my fiance and I. If it wasn't the budget, it was the household finances, or the philosophical nature of a marriage, or the holidays, or my job. We dance the dance of fear of what it means to create the "we" from our independent selves.

Its hard at times to wonder if you are just scared or seeing big red flags. The last thing you want is your life running like a horror movie where you keep screaming at the stupid girl not to go into the dark house and check out the noise. This is my fear. How does one tell if it is just cold feet or something bigger?

I've talked to my bridesmaid chaplain who has done a lot of marital and premarital counseling in his life. He listened and said that it just sounds like normal fear. This was reassuring as well as consulting all of my feminist essay books and couples counseling texts about what is normal. However, I realize that my fiance does not have this advantage for reassurance and so it seems that every few days there is another issue to tackle, whether imagined or real.

Last night we tested the waters over family identification. How do we spend 4 days of precious and isolated time with those that we love? Add in a holiday and it gets more complicated. Do we just split up at the airport and do our thing with our respective family of origins? I said that does not feel like a stable marriage pattern to me, only because the idea of being separate in a marriage was never encourgaged or even entertained in my role models. He countered with the fact that it felt more stable because we were comfortable with our individuality. He didn't want to be attached at the hip, neither did I, but I also didn't want us having sleepovers with our respective parents without one another. I began to question if the apron strings were cut or if they ever would be and how would I keep that from being "chatter" in my family? In my view, we needed to create an identity of us within our families. Not to assimilate, but to incorporate. Two hours and 44 minutes of conversation later we both just admitted to being scared and then he asked if we would ever get the issues of our families resolved?

I spent some time with my girlfriend on Saturday morning. Over cheap breakfast she gave me some insight as to how her marriage of 6 years + twins has worked. She laughed when I said that all we need to do is find our rhythm and we'll be fine. She told me to just get ready, because just when you find that pattern, it changes.

I remember when she was a newlywed and family issues emerged. Her husband came from a really strong families together approach and she was used to her nuclear family spread across the Nation only seeing one another at holidays. Weekly Sunday dinners a la in laws were intrusive to her routine and idea of what a marriage should be. Years later, although they are more independent as a couple from their family of origins, the topic still carries a lot of heat.

You always view yourself as "the normal one" and that your viewpoints you were raised with are the "right ones." Last night when I was drawing the line in the sand of what I needed him to commit to and where my boundary was, I realized something. I told him that through my relationship with him I've come to find that statements and beliefs I have that I thought ended with a period, actually had a comma. And those that I thought were negotiable with a comma, some had a period of definition. Its a process finding the punctuation in a relationship. Questions lead to all sorts of exclaimation points, commas, and periods when you are writing your own story.

Friller, Filler, and Spiller

2006-06-25T09:52:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday Mom and I ventured back out to the garden store. This is the same store that I mentioned about a year ago where Dave, the weed expert, used my mom in a spacial relations experiment with henbit (ah, it only took me 10 months, but I diagnosed the weed species myself!) This garden store has been a landmark in Salt Lake and quite frankly, everyone in my family goes there so we haven't sought out many other experts.

I was stressed out about my impending marriage so mom indulged me by buying all of the flowers if I would just fill the pots. I love to garden, she doesn't have the time. It worked out well. We began to puruse the snapdragons, petunias, nicotania, and other really pretty flowers I don't know the names of. As our cart was getting full, a small Asian woman with the nametag, "Clara," approached us.

"How are you going to arrange your pots?" She asked in a very heavy accent.

"Uh, like we always do. We stuff them in there." I replied, truly showing my artistic landscaping genius. She looked horrified.

"No no no! You must have a fwiller, fillwer, and spillwer." Ok, I looked again at her nametag. It noted that she also spoke Dutch and German. No wonder I couldn't understand her. Is Clara really a popular Asian name?

"Thriller?" Thinking Michael Jackson style.

"No," she paused to make sure her consonants were correct, "frwiller, fillwer and spillwer." She went to get a pot and pointed to the components again. "I am here to make sure you have the formula to make your neighbors jealous of your pots, you choose the colors. All you have in your cart are fillwers."

I began to think back to my grandmothers' pots over the years, whom I regarded as greenthumbs, and never heard these three terms come out of their mouths.

I once again began to ask about the "thriller" again in my cultural insensitivity. Was it more rude to just smile and pass her off or keep asking for clarification? I still could not understand her when my mom rescued me, "What's a friller?"

"Ah!" Clara ran over to another pot to point at grass. "Fth, frwillers are tall spiky things that stick up. Gwrasses, you know. Fwrillers." She was beaming as she pointed to things that looked like mini yucca plants that I mistakenly planted in my back yard months ago not realizing they belonged in pots. No wonder they weren't thriving.

We picked up two of them and asked if we had any spillers.

"No, no. You want some of these, but we are out." She pointed to some lovely looking yellow mumish daisy things. "Very popular." She added not realizing that her advice was not helpful if they were out of stock.

I left my mom with Clara as she once again began to repeat the formula to her and I looked for anything looking like it was trying to escape its plastic container. I didn't even notice the colors of the blooms or how big it grew, I just started throwing them in the cart. Spillers my foot.

I came back to Clara then telling my mom that hanging baskets only should have spillers in them. Ok, now I realize I committed gardening cardnal sin #45 of only putting in fillers in those suckers months ago. I just figured the leggy pansies looked fine. We thanked Clara who seemed pleased with herself that she had helped another struggling customer with her gardening wisdom and checked out.

On the way home I began to note the neighbors who got the formula right. I think I only counted about 4. That night I was telling my grandmother, Ginny, the story and asked if she had heard of this friller, filler, spiller theory. She looked me dead in the eye and said, "yes." It was like my years of shadowing this woman in the garden did squat. However, Clara would be proud of the envy over the 9 pots I filled correctly with the holy trinity of potting formula.

Doggie Ambassador

2006-06-20T21:25:00.000-07:00

Remember back in December when my father, Saint Nick himself, got his panties all wadded up and raided the next door neighbors' Christmas gifts? Today I hopefully sent Edgar on the ambassadorship quest of Hubbard Avenue.

After work I stopped by to check on the doggy daycare my parents have provided, afterall he is their grand-dog and once the engagement was announced, Edgar could do no wrong. He was my Dad's buddy and my Mom's lovebug instantly. All of which I am extremely grateful for by the way. I wouldn't be surprised if they asked for joint custody once I move to Indiana. Edgar is a pack animal and really HATES being alone.

Edgar has developed a buddy relationship with the dog next door, Guthrie. My father, in particular, does not get along with the neighbors. I think him blatently accusing them of shooting Murphy (another old dog of ours) with a BB gun pushed them over the edge, especially considering we have no proof. Dad still holds this premise as true with no evidence. Hence, they dislike Dad and mildly tolerate us.

They got Guthrie soon after their youngest son was found dead of accidential causes in their basement a year ago Christmas...coinciding with the anniversary gifts arriving on their front door Scrooge took. Guthrie is a black lab. Edgar and Guthrie love each other. They spend hours running back and forth along the fence that separates the yards.

Today I complimented Guthrie's father about what a good dog he is and I got invited over for a play date. My mom and I took Edgar over to get acquainted and they hit it off immediately. The owner said to just leave him there and they would play fetch. I took this as an olive branch of trust and left for about 45 min. They got along famously.

Guthrie's father brought Edgar back to our yard complimenting my dog and said he was welcome over for play dates anytime. I complimented Guthrie and thanked him for the offer. A small exchange occurred about his artwork he had in hand about his dead son and I think a connection was made. The whole time my parents sat inside in awe.

Who knew furry friends could bridge a simple chain link fence?

Peccadillos

2006-06-17T08:37:00.000-07:00

Last night I hired a property management company to help me get my house listed for rent, market it, and then manage the tenants. When RaNae (literal Utah spelling) put the metal sign on my lawn (one of the most effective marketing strategies, she said), my heart plummeted into my stomache. MY house. I felt like I was prostituting out part of myself.

I realized at that point that I have a lot more than just a few little quirks that my husband-to-be will be taking, for better or worse, as long as we both shall live. Here are just a few of them.

1) I anthropormorphize just about everything. Of course the couch, floor, plants, and cars have feelings. Of course I don't typically remember to apologize to poor spiders before I smash them into oblivion (not my fault they came into my space), but I will apologize to the wall if I accidentially run into it and feel really bad for crashed cars.
2) I sing constantly to Edgar. Usually its made up tunes about him being a sweetpea and Edgar-roo, and my baby puppy and there isn't a melody to save your life. I also spoil the dog. I actually bake him bones from the butcher. My whole family does this for dogs. I just though it was normal.
3) I like my showers/baths hot hot hot and the room I am sleeping in to be cold.
4) All of my laundry must be done on Sunday. House cleaned on the weekends.
5) I like the snooze button. Not just one alarm. I usually set 2-4 of them and it is only when NPR and my ring tones are competing for my attention do I get up. This ususally happens after 3 or 4 cycles of my hitting snooze.
6) I'm perpetually late...although I'm getting better at that.
7) I can't drink milk in the mornings. Makes me nauseous.
8) I'm a cookie monster. Its my comfort food.
9) Weeding is fun to me.
10) I hate John Denver.
11) High crisis and trauma turns me on. Just yesterday we had a code blue and I was sailing!
12) I love water sports but it does creep me out to be in the middle of the lake wondering what fish (I can't see) could be swimming and touching my toes.
13) I am afraid of going blind, bugs, and ghosts.
14) I firmly believe in tarot and astrology. They can give just as good counsel as a religious figure head. (Now that I've typed that I'm certain I'mgoing to hell)
15) I'm caddy. I like being caddy with my girlfriends although I'm also ashamed of it.
16) I'm a toilet paper snob. I only will buy one brand: Kleenex Cottonelle
17) I can't stand dishes in the sink or a dirty floor.
18) I'll pick goobers out of Edgars eyes with my bare fingers.
19) I have an addiction to Real Simple magazine, baths, cafe au laits, neat serving platters or dishes, and lavender.
20) I only like music where I can relate to the lyrics.
21) You know I'm in trouble coping wise if I begin to write novels out of the current experiences.
22) I love listening to the Today show while I'm getting ready for the day.
23) I only like my nails filed off to be more square vs. oval.
24) I hate beets.
25) I get depressed easily but I think life is generally funny and everything happens for a reason.
26) I despise people who can only complain about the problem without moving forward into thinking how to fix it, ignorance combined with arrogance, and entitlement.
27) I'd rather clean the house than go to the grocery store.
28) I love day lilies, snap dragons, peonies, orchids, periwinkle, and butterfly bushes. I hate marigolds, carnations, and daisies.
29) Money makes me uncomfortable.
30) I make decisions quickly. If its the wrong decision then I'll fix it. No harm done.
31) I like to purge things in my house. I love getting rid of crap. I am not a pack rat and only few sentimental pieces will do.
32) I hate my feet.
33) Nine times out of ten, if you call me, I am multi tasking. It is very rare that I can just sit and focus on a conversation.
34) I love to scrapbook. I realize this is a very Utah thing to do, but its fun.

I'm certain there are more. But there are some for starters.

I don't need no stinkin man

2006-06-15T20:03:00.000-07:00

I think I'm offically beginning to freak out.

It all started when I began to explore the idea of refinancing my house. I figure it would be good to see about the potential of locking in a better interest rate for a longer period of time while I'm away in the midwest. When it came to the point of making a decision of moving forward I found myself doing a huge explaination to the mortgage broker.

"You see, I have to run this by my fiance. Not that I'm used to this. I usually can make decisions all by myself, in fact I'm used to it, but now that I'm engaged I think its important that I get his input and so that I...I mean WE can agree and decide on what would be best for us in the long run. I mean, that is what you do when you are married, but I'm just getting used to the idea, so is it ok if I call you back within the next 24 hours? I'm sorry I can't give you an answer now."

The mortage broker probably thought I was needing more psychotropics by then. You see, when I said "I need to run this by my fiance," it felt as if I were saying, "I'm not strong enough to make a decision by myself and I have to wait on my man."

Needlesstosay, given my fiance's call schedule and sleep deprivation as well as his sheer adversity to making decisions, not only has 24 hours eclipsed, but 72 hours and I still haven't called back the mortgage broker.

At work, I've been getting used to the idea of someone else sitting in my chair...ooh, Freudian slip...sitting in THE DIRECTORS chair. I've been thinking of internal candidates more so than external. Today I heard that one of my former male therapists who quit within 3 months of my directorship was planning on applying for my job, I was thinking, "oh no he didn't!"

Here's the deal. I live in a profession with 90% of the workforce women, but most of the top administrative jobs held by the males. Stupid males. Stupid sexism. Makes me think that I would rather have my nemesis in the chair than some guy. ESPECIALLY some guy who quit on me. Sure I told him he could come back any time...I meant as a CLINICIAN.

In graduate school I actually signed up to run as vice president of the school until one of my professors pointed out the sexist descrepancy of leadership within the profession. I got so mad I went up and erased my name for v.p. and wrote in for president. I won. That same drive haunts me now.

The drive to be an indepenent feminist.

Redwood in a Can

2006-06-11T14:37:00.000-07:00

Well, it took me about 3 weeks start to finish minus rain delays, two products that couldn't be applied in direct sunlight, and my lazy side on weekday mornings, but the first coat of the deck is done! I have to tell you, its been quite the ordeal. When I first went to Home Depot and began to invest in products, my mother told me I had been "sold a bill of goods" (another strange cliche I'm not certain of the meaning, but its been in my family for generations.) There was the stripper, the brightener, the brushes, the spongey applier thingys, the deck brush, and a squirt bottle.

I usually began in the mornings. Edgar would be tied up in the back yard so he felt included (hello, he's a pack animal), but far enough away from the chemicals. Sometimes Mom would show with bagels and a sense of humor. I always had music on. I kept thinking, "this can't be that hard." And I also remembered my uncle's advice that you can always fix it.

The stripper (ok that just sounds strange), the paint stripper was advised to be applied by the squirt bottle. My hands began to cramp by board 4. Mom, who accompanied me in this little journey bright and early before the sun hit the deck, suggested we try a mop. The mop only just sucked up the paint stripper and failed to distribute it. It also subsequently ruined my mop. We turned to the brushes. Yup, hours upon hours of bending over painting, waiting for it to cure, then madly brushing the chemical up before it dried, and finally pressure hosing it down. It was rewarding though to watch the stain just lift right up.

I moved onto the brightener just this past Thursday. I got up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 to get it going. I finished the whole thing that morning. I think this was the part that my mom doubted, but it turned ugly weathered wood the color of honey and was worth the $19.99 or whatever I paid for it.

This morning I was ready for the stain. I went with a redwood tint, mostly because it was what the previous owners had and I didn't want to condition the bloody benches. Besides, it looks nice with my sandstone wall. My first problem was I didn't know how to open the paint can. Oh, how I wish I were kidding.

Remember how my father isn't handy so its not like I had a role model. When I was about 11 or so my grandfather "commissioned" his granddaughters to paint the white fence that went the full perimeter of the ranch up in Oakley, Utah. It was a BIG ranch. We spent about a week doing this and keeping a timecard so we could get paid. I think we were just child labor, but whatever. Of course, he was meticulously Army trained and a bit OCD so he took care of the messy parts like opening the paint cans and pouring it into the container (I'm certain there is a fancy name for it, but "container" works just fine.) As prepubescent girls go, we of course screwed things up like managed to get paint EVERYWHERE and loaded the brushes all the way to the metal. This causes the bristles to separate. I earned about $50 that summer.

Once I called my mom to find out how to open the can, I was off and rolling (nice pun.) Then it dawned on me, I had everything BUT stuff to clean the paint off of me. Because although it had been decades, I made the same mistakes. Paint everywhere and I loaded the brushes. I called my mom again to ask for paint thinner. There wasn't a way I could paint laden get in my car and get back to Home Depot. I began to curse the sales dudes who just happened to forget this important part.

My fiance called me part way through the morning post-call. I told him of my debacle and he told me I needed spirits. Ok, I thought he was joking and could picture me going into the store asking for spirits or ghosts or something and only for the clerk to burst into hysterics. He clarified mineral spirits, but I wasn't convinced. Only once we hung up did I call my dad who just said they didn't have any paint stuff at the grocery store.

I actually began to read the can. Hey! Its water clean up! Ok, so back to the sink! Yeah, not so much. I began to wonder if I would be permanently redwood myself. Screw it, I went back outside to complete my venture. My work became a bit sloppy in an effort just to get the damn thing done. So what if some of the stain landed on the metal. Its Water Soluable! I'm certain it will clean up. I continued to work on the wood around the fence....that is, until I ran out of paint.

In the meantime, my parents stopped by with paint "kleenup." Didn't look to environmentally friendly, but perhaps it could work. My father remarked that I didn't get inbetween the boards. Say what? They left with Edgar (rescued from the boring backyard) and I began to shove my already loaded brush inbetween the boards, which, by the way, doesn't work.

Well, like I said, I ran out of paint (yes, I'm certain this story is just riveting you to the screen, but you can stop reading if you'd like.) So I attempted to wash off best I could without the Kleenup and made it to Home Depot. They had to mix another can for me and then I asked about the inbetween parts. Wouldn't you know, for only $19.95 there was a wonder brush with surface appliers and a small wedge that also went inbetween the boards. But wait, there's more! A rebate! I began to look at the $3.00 sponges thinking I could do this for cheaper, but in the end I just gave up and bought the sucker.

Did I mention I was getting sloppy? Who cares if part of it lands on the concrete/plant leaves/hose? It's Water Soluable! The whole time I was painting the fence and watching it drip I kept hearing a song from "Alice in Wonderland" in my head. "We're painting the roses red, painting the roses red, not pink, not green, not aquamarine, We're painting the roses red!" Perhaps the paint fumes were getting to me.

I began to doubt my confidence in the water based cleaning when I tried to wash the brushes and me and it just smeared the tacky substance around. I first read on the container that it was ok to have human skin contact and then dampened a rag like my grandfather did before to scrub it off of me. It took me roughly 7 hours today to get one coat done on everything. I have a bit of a sunburn and a wee headache from dehydration.

Only another 72 hours before I can do coat 2!

Family Inc: Mergers and Acquisitions

2006-06-09T13:52:00.000-07:00

They say that all major wars were launched due to faith and beliefs. The Cruisades, the World Wars, even Jihad. I would argue that it is power framed as being related to faith and beliefs. See, for example, my current battle over the rehearsal dinner.

It all began with a common misunderstanding about expectations. What resources were being dedicated to which part of the overall wedding experience. I found that my unspoken number was quite different than my family-in-law-to-be. Both sides believed they were being reasonable and had faith all would work out in the end. But would it?

Resources = power. Just ask the social worker who's days' work is finding resources for those who don't have any. Generally speaking, these are the mentally ill, poverty stricken, and now more than ever, the middle class. But anyway, I'm off that soap box.

The problem was that both my fiance and I believed that there was one big pot of resources vs. dividing out across the traditional roles. We planned the budget from this point of view and were, sorely, sorely mistaken. Feelings were hurt, mixed messages were sent, and to be honest, I'm still not certain where we stand.

Last night my fiance said that politics are just a fancy way of using soft language to get what you want. I find that family politics do not work out this way at all. I have never heard a 16 year old finesse an agreement from their parents for things like having a huge party with no supervision. (If I had, I would have been refering to DCFS for neglect...sure, have your whole high school come by while we're out of town and here's the liquor cabinet key) I don't think so.

Soft language would be ok...if you were at a childrens' hospital (don't say large needle, but a small straw that may feel like a tiny pinch). Soft language in families doesn't fly. I'm a literal kind of person. You tell me, yes, it means yes. No means no. So when you tell me that it is ok to use the backyard and then the next day ask if I really understood you that what you meant was, no...well, this doesn't fly for me. However, in some families between the lines reading is the M.O. With my family, you almost wish there were lines because the game is on even at the Sunday dinner table. Both families believe they have the best way of communicating. Do you come to Sunday dinner with a magnifying glass to pick apart the clues or a shield to abort the blows?

Who has the power? That has yet to be decided as the two families blend with their beliefs. Will it be the "strong and silent" or the "honesty is the best policy?"

Affirmation

2006-05-24T12:59:00.000-07:00

Huh. I kind of feel like a deer in the headlights. Over the years as a director, I have dealt with a lot of political and interpersonal nightmares. Perhaps it was because I was a young peer moving up the ranks, perhaps it was something else. All I know is that I have kept the details to myself vs. publically processing things on the blog for a good reason. Much thanks to Dooce who lived, learned, and passed on her wisdom. Note to self: will not repeat her mistake. All I know is that when I began to finally let my colleagues and staff know of my intention to leave, I felt more relief than regret. Indiana with its fields of corn, evangelical tent revivals, race cars and tornados looks really good to me right now.

The team is in a good place. I'm really proud of the work we've done on our relationships, trust, task forces, etc.. Most of the work was behind having them believe in themselves and just prove how excellent they were vs. playing the martyr victim. Odd that a profession so built on advocacy would have so many people in victim mode. I'm glad to be leaving on a high note vs. a low one. I'm happy that administration is wanting to work with me to help transition and have me be mostly in control of my termination date.

I've been telling staff members individually of my plans which have been met with some tears, a lot of congratulations, one expressing interest in my job, and one begging me not to go. Today in staff meeting I addressed their anxiety openly. To my surprise quite a few asked if the organization would consider having me go on a LOA for a couple of years and they would be ok with an interim director for the meantime. I thought only one person felt that way, but apparently they wanted to organize a group to petition the CEO, admin director, and HR for this plan.

If anything, I was flattered. Part of me wondered if it was more about them being more afraid of change than it was about me. Even some of my harshest critics acknowledged how much they appreciated me and respected me, but our biggest source of pain was the change of me taking over in the beginning.

Either way no matter what happens, interim or permanent replacement, it was a nice affirmation that the past 3 years have meant something.

All Y'All

2006-05-17T11:36:00.000-07:00

Phew! Things are going so fast! I just got back from Louisiana where wedding 2 out of 3 for 2006 occurred. The first was my dear friend in San Francisco, but I couldn't make it because I was so sick.

Miss Stacey was married last Saturday at a beautiful plantation. www.houmashouse.com I was a bridesmaid. I can tell you that of all of the times I've been a bridesmaid, this has been my favorite experience. The dress was pretty, I had hair long enough for an up-do, the weather was perfect, and my fiance flew down to meet me.

I can say that the bride was a bundle of nerves as the countdown to zero hour. She was so focused on her tiara looking just right and her make up to be just so. She was not the talkative chatty southern belle I was used to. All I could think was, "This is a preview of how I'm going to be." Or not.

One of my bridesmaids, Michael the chaplain, instructed me that I needed to get rid of the perfection myth. On some level that will be easy because details can sometimes elude me.

Its been a few years since I've been back to NOLA. I have to say, I couldn't bear to fly into New Orleans, so I flew into Baton Rouge like a coward. At the rehearsal dinner, the natives (otherwise known as the ya yas) gave me updates on how the city was doing.

Apparently the lakeshore is still devistated. There is a waterline along I 10 where the flood waters hit that they haven't washed off. There are cars that were flooded along the interstate that no one has cleared. Charity Hospital's Emergency Department has moved to the Lord and Taylor department store. There aren't any service people. Even taco bell has limited hours and closes at 7:00 PM. Emeril's Delmonico restaurant still isn't open...the recorded message says, "Due to Hurricane Katrina, we are still closed." Emeril's just barely opened up with limited seating, limited hours, and a limited menu. Tell me again why we're sending troops to guard our southern borders (but not our northern) when the city is still in shreads?

In other news, my engagement photos are up! www.davinafear.com/alijon/ They are amazing!

Annoying

2006-05-08T09:26:00.000-07:00

I must be hormonal except for the fact that the calendar says I should be FINE.

If you've been paying attention to the "what I'm reading" sectionrecently, it has reflected a variety of different marriage prepbooks. I call it my arsenal for a pre-emptive strike against thefreak-out I'm trying to avoid but is oh so characteristic of me. Currently I'm skimming The Medical Marriage for obviousreasons. The authors (a married couple who are not MD's) suggestreading it together, but I can't figure out why because its all factsand no deep questions for couples to even spawn a conversation. Basically the message its sending is, marriage is hard but beingmarried to a doctor is worse. Really comforting, folks.

The previous book I read was by Marg Stark called, What NoOne Tells the Bride. Its worth a read. Fear about becoming a Mrs. (as in what youthink of as the exclusive title of your mother in law), navigatingme-time/we-time, and whatnot. It was really great to the pointthat I went in search for her web site. Wouldn't you know it,she's become a traitor. Now her site is all about her being aMommy.

I have nothing against the motherhood movement. What's annoyingme is that it seems to just be another status ring. There arelists and lists of blogs dedicated to being a mom and the challengesassociated with it. Please note, I am a fan of them. However, I do search through the material for issues and topics I canrelate to that do not have anything to do with sleeping patterns, poopydiapers, or cheerios. Please tell me that these women hang on tosomething of themselves besides their primary identity of being amom. They did have a life before pushing a melon out of their hoohaw (yes, the very medically scientific term I adopted from living inthe south).

My question is, where are the blogs dedicated to the transition ofsinglehood to couplehood? Is this where Sex and the City tookoff? Notice there isn't a Mom in the City movement (yet, I shouldsay, yet).

My future sister in law has a 22 month old. She lives in LA as astay at home mom and has tried to expand her social circles. Shelet me know that the hierarchy doesn't end once you are a mom. Nope. You get bonus points for the MORE children you have. Thus, because she's only had one, she falls to the bottom of theclub.

My cousin has had two and lives in a very wealthy part of Utah. To show she is all about it, she has embarked on an extreme make-overof veneers and a boob job. Apparently she's running for promqueen of the mommies.

Will the hierarchy competition ever end?

Six Degrees

2006-05-04T20:08:00.000-07:00

I'm certain everyone has heard about the game, "Six Degrees of Separation from Kevin Bacon." I, myself, have never played...that is, until today. Here's the deal:

I have an employee who's roommate just landed a job as a nanny for Meg Ryan, who was married to Dennis Quaid, who was in a movie with Kyra Sedgwick, who is married to Kevin Bacon. Or, you could just note that I once saw Kevin Bacon perform at the Gallivan Center with his brother. I actually stumbled into that concert by accident.

What is really amazing is the nannying part. She is getting paid six figures for taking care of the adopted child and coordinating schedules for the 14 year old with the joint custody arrangement. (I can tell you this as there haven't been any confidentiality clauses signed.) Six figures. What the hell was I thinking going to college, graduate school, and wanting to help the world for my salary?

Apparently the nanny has been doing this for 14 years. I had friends who did the nanny thing until their early 20's always swearing they would NEVER hire a nanny (none of them have either). I'm certain people read the bestseller, "The Nanny Diaries." Somewhere there is a line between the meager fees, a weekend off, and free room to six figures, Christmas in St. Barts, and movie sets. This woman crossed that line.

She was back East working for a rap mogul. His kids were apparently only brought out for photo ops and to show off the bling. Ms. Ryan is a huge step up on the parenting involvement.

When I was little I always wanted a nanny (Mary Poppins style), store bought cookies, and thought videos were a huge treat. Instead I had a stay at home mom, fresh baked cookies, and active imagination games like school/gas station/restaurant.

I hope when I have kids, they have the same desires and realities I did. Nannies need not apply.

Work it Baby

2006-04-30T08:33:00.000-07:00

I just got home from a conference in San Diego involving the socialwork leaders in healthcare. Although the annual conference fellduring the last part of my fiance's vacation home, I went solo toobtain CEU's and network. My hope was to meet social workers fromIndiana. As luck would have it, I sat down next to one on theshuttle bus from the airport within minutes of arriving. I thinkshe put it eloquantly, "I don't believe in chance."

We spent a few hours sight seeing around the gas lamp district. Its as vintage as sunny California can get with Victorian archetecture,bar after bar, and pan handlers asking for change so they can buyweed. (At least they are honest.) I think this scene was abit much for my new friend who looked just like my third grade teacher,Mrs. Liston, complete with the large framed bifocal glasses, Rebokshoes, and knitted sweater. Her response was, "Oh my."

As we walked around town, I listened to her stories of her three verysingle sons, her desire for a daughter-in-law, and her husband's newretirement with hobbies that include orchard tending and bee keeping ontheir farm house estate. The next day she introduced me toseveral of the Indiana delegates. Mrs. Liston II wasn't shy inintroducing me and then saying I was looking for a job. I haddinner with the group and spoke with the State's chapter president whosaid she had two openings in the county system, but then listened to myexperience and said the board would never hire me because I had donetoo much, was too experienced, and posed to be a threat. I have afear this is going to be the case no matter where I apply. I wasso "in" with the Indy group that I accidentially got my photo takenwith them for the chapter and somehow missed the Utah group. Oops.

It also turns out that Mrs. L II is a lifetime achievement award personwith the National society. She has created innovative social workprograms to help fund expensive things like breast care medications tothose who don't qualify for insurance or Medicaid. Who would havethought there was so much gusto in the reincarnation of a grade schoolteacher?

I spent the next day trying to make it up to the Utah group by going tolunch with them. They asked me to run for president-elect of ourchapter and I somehow edged out of that one.

When I was leaving yesterday I found Mrs. L II and told her thank youfor everything. She began to cry. Ack. She went on tosay that she thought I was "precious" and that she looked forward to memoving there so she could show me all of the "bargain shopping places"in the city. I was introduced to her husband, Bob the Beekeeper,who said, "Ah you're the one my wife keeps saying she wishes wasmarrying into our family, but hey, congratulations on yourengagement." She made me swear I would send her my resume as soonas I got home.

All I could say? Oh my.

Woulda Coulda Cana

2006-03-31T21:29:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I was in Indianapolis visiting my fiance. On theagenda was a little bit more than our typical make dinner at home/visitthe Indianapolis Museum of Art/Rene's Bakery agenda. Oh no, wehad a date with the Catholic church for a Pre Cana weekend.

There are a few hoops to jump through in order to marry in thechurch. Besides the typical baptism records, you also get to do anatural family planning class and an engaged encounter weekend. However, in Indy the nearest retreat house is 4 hours away so they usethe shortened version, Pre Cana, as its sub. Think of it aspremarital counseling via cliff notes. My fiance and I began towonder if we were cheating the system by doing the condensed version,so we sought counsel with Father Stan. He said that if it countedgood for them, who is he to say that it isn't.

Sunday morning came and we actually made it to church. I'm not abig fan of the newer movement. The altar is more out into theaudience and the pews have been rearranged to go around it in asemi-circle of sorts. I think they wanted us to feel includedmore, but all I could think of was a run way at Fashion Week. (I'm going to Hell for that one.)

Moving on, we took advantage of our small break and had brunch, but wewere a bit late to the engaged couples meeting. Surprisingly, itwas a big crowd and we got to sit in the front row (only spaceleft). I made up for us being the disruption by calling furtherattention to us by winning the prize because I had traveled thefurthest for the weekend. It was a cheesy ring holder from thearchdiociese. And the instruction began!

We mingled a bit on cue with our couple next to us. Allison andJeff. Met 2 years ago. Getting married in May. Theyare also socially stunted because they didn't ask us one questionback. The first volunteer couple instructors came forward to talkabout Family of Origin. I began to tune out because it was socialwork 101. They went on and on about how holidays can be tough anddivorced in-laws can be challenging. No kidding.

The second session was on communication. A new instructor coupleemerged and literally handed out a worksheet entitled, "Rules forFighting." #1. No physical violence. Ok, its just a sadstatement when this really needs to be said, and I suppose, some intheroom probably needed to be reminded of it. The one thing I cansay I liked is that they did say it was ok for you to fight in front ofyour children as long as they also see you make up. They handedout another "fun" sheet for a "date" night that listed things like,favorite number, favorite color, favorite meal, etc. Then I gotdown to, "favorite position." I stopped and whispered to myfiance, "Aren't we NOT supposed to know this yet?" He smiled andwhispered back, "I know mine. Full back." Trying to keep mygiggles quiet was a challenge.

After the break, the NFP class was next. A young couple came inand began a fairly persuasive presentation on this. The fire andbrimstone was left behind and only small amounts emerged in their"testimony" of sorts. On some level it made sense, that is amedical healthy perspective. The debate of when life began wastouched upon, but not drilled. It was rather nice. Theyalso made an argument about how it brought closer communicationand intimacy. Ok, really, this made sense if your morningdialogue included things like basal temp, mucus viscosity, andpotential breast tenderness. "Good morning, honey, how did yousleep? I dreamed I was flying and by the way my temp is 98.9 andthe fluid resembles egg whites." Ooh, sexy. I'm certainthat kind of talk will really encourage some hot heavy mornin'lovin'! All joking aside, they did also say that couples whopractice this method have a less than 2% divorce rate. Whetherthis is true or not, I'm not certain.

The last class was taught by Father Kevin. He was a roly poly manwho waddled in, adjusted his glasses, and immediately announced UConn'supset. I liked him already. He began to talk about God'sgrace in marriage. He was married before becoming a priest. His wife, Carol, died to ovarian cancer. He told stories of theintimate moments. The happy moments, the sad moments, the angermoments...all of them devine moments. He was witty, genuine, andwas literally the highlight of the day.

Many people dread this requirement of the Catholic church. I'm just thinking they didn't have the right location.

Small Lake City and the Name Game

2006-03-23T11:52:00.000-08:00

I apologize for not writing for a couple of weeks. Its been wedding drama left right and center.

Occasionally I will use the term, "Small Lake City," to refer to my hometown when 6 degrees of separation seems like a severe understatement. It seems like everyone knows someone you know. I had one boyfriend who lived out of town and everytime we got on a plane leaving Utah, I knew at least one other passenger. This seemed comical to a guy from the East Coast.

Two weeks ago I flew into planning mode again to appease my anxiety. I began with the photographer. My mother and I went to interview one, Duston Todd, who was highly creative and edgy, but my gut said to move on. I began to call others. I realize that I'm a bit jaded by names after working at a children's hosptial. It seems that all Destiny's, Celesitial's, or Nevaeh's (Heaven backwards) are destined for a sexual assault, Brooklyn's have some sort of congenital heart defect, and Ashley's usually overdose. Rule of thumb I've learned is the funkier the spelling of the name, the worse the medical diagnosis. With this being said, a photographer with two first names caught my supersition-salt-throwing-avoiding-black-cats kind of sense. Like I said, I moved on. The names got worse, but the creativity got better.

Pepper Nix. Great photographer. Already booked. She spent 45 minutes one Saturday morning giving me advice to help me find THE photographer and then went on about flowers, lighting, invitations, etc. She was amazing to the point that I sent her a thank you note. She led met to Davina Fear. This woman rocked. Mom and I met with her and I booked her on the spot. (Yes, these are all their birth names.)

With the contract signed and deposit check written, Mom and I celebrated with a glass of wine. About an hour and a half later when Mom had left and I was settling into the couch, Davina was back at my door. She was distraught. She had pitched to another bride days before and promised to wait a certain amount of time, but had gotten caught up in my excitement and booked with me for the same day. Ethics vs. legal vs. emotions vs. logic all played out as I invited her in to debrief. I wasn't certain if my role was to play social worker, friend, customer, legal advisor, or what so mostly I listened andreframed.

A rough 24 hours passed and she called thanking me and reassuring me that she would honor her contract and do my wedding. Phew! With that done, I began to move onto the flowers. Met Shawn, booked him on the spot. (How can you resist a male florist who says, "Oh goodie!" when you tell them you are going to book them?)

Then the band issue the following day came up. I investigated a few bands. For the most part, musicians are flakey (including my brother). With my type A personality the contract of, "If I don't show up, I don't get paid," doesn't work for me. My fiance was against my first choice because they sounded schmaltzy. (Interesting word, it makes me think of an accordian player in a powder blue tux.) But then the others were flakes. I found J.D. Moffet. Great guy. Turns out we had all sorts of connections in Small Lake. For example: my grandmother and his mother in law are best friends, he taught my brother guitar, he played at my uncle's funeral, he knows the anesthesiology dept at work very well. I went to see them play and we booked. He said he had a tenative engagement scheduled for the same night, but we were practically family so it really wasn't a question.

He called the next day telling me about his experience cancelling the other party. When he told them he had another engagement at Log Haven the reply was, "Unbelievable! First she gets my photographer and now she got my band!"

Whoever this bride is, I'm certain she hates my guts.

Super so Far

2006-03-10T15:02:00.000-08:00

In the tarot deck, number 17 is The Star. I generally like this card when I read for people. Its simple message is duty vs. authenticity. Its a battle every one of us faces over and over again throughout our lives. However, sometimes the timing is exquisite.

My brother has been on the straight and narrow. Now that he is not playing my roommate, I can be a bit more objective. He has escaped the drama of an engagement that never should have happened, landed a nice place down town, has been really successful at work, became more emotionally invested in the family, and even bought a great set of wheels. Wouldn't you know that once he became stable, fate would twist the plot?

I don't think anyone truly dreams of some of the jobs we end up in. No one ever grows up and says, "I always wanted to be an accountant." Usually little kids say things like fire fighters, veterinarians, or a rock star. My brother fell into that last fantasy. He pursued music most of his life whether it was the piano, trombone, drums, or guitar. He has talent. He's been in many bands. For the past while he has settled for playing covers for a loyal audience at the local meat market. He has a good time and it's easy for him.

Last Sunday he got a phone call to audition for a band that is close to signing and got offered a position. If he joins he will be giving up the security of a "grown up" life as he will be on the road a lot. He came over to my parents to talk out the process the next night. "Angst" doesn't even begin to describe what he was going though. The music sounds like something he wrote. The style is his. It is a now or never kind of deal.

His life has been great up until now, but it holds the promise of what dreams are made of. Ironically, the name of the band is, "Super so Far."

www.supersofar.com

Retro Fit

2006-03-03T09:11:00.000-08:00

The past two days I've been home. Its given me time to nap, playwith Edgar, dwell on the wedding details, and reinvent the comforts Iknew 20 years ago.

My girlfriend gave me a very cool photo album. www.kolo.com She gave me the basic black album and photo corners. I actuallygot caught up a little bit on this task and got through 2003. AsI sorted through the boxes of photos I could discard the ones where Ilook drunk (but I'm not), the ones where heads are cut off, and theothers that really didn't contribute to the photojournalistic style Iwas going for. I actually come from a very talented art andphotographic family, but I didn't get that gene.

While attaching the photo corners, I realized that the style of thealbum was pretty familiar. My grandmother did a lot of albums.She had 6 kids. Enough said. I used to love going throughthe albums. Sure the pictures were cool, but the stories and thememories were amazing. Grandma would tell tales of riveradventures with a travel group, her dude ranch experience when she was16, and all of the family trips to southern Utah were documented.

My fiance and I are in the process of picking a photographer. This, by the way, is a nightmare. When you realize that when allis said and done, all you will have left is a dress and some photos thepressure is on to pick the best you can. One blessing is, a lotof them include an album they assemble with the photos you choose inthe price.

Ah, well back to the whole retro thing. Yesterday I found theinspiration to make a crock pot recipe. I called my parents toinvite them to dinner tonight. It takes hours/days to prepare a"simple no fuss" meal, ironic eh? When I told my dad I would bemaking Carolina pulled pork sandwiches (don't know why this even soundsgood) he asked how I even had a crock pot. He hadn't seen onesince 1983 when it mysteriously got "lost" in a move. One of myAunts gave it to me cleaning out her house years ago. Its a nicecrock pot. It is beige with pastel pink and blue flowers on theoutside and a deep brownish red pot. Very, very 80's.

This morning I woke up and had a Pop Tart (something I haven't hadsince I was in grade school, but it sounded good so I picked them up atthe store yesterday). I then began to assemble the recipe. "Recipe" is a loose term. I studied about 12 of them and combinedwhat I thought sounded reasonable without paying attention to themeasurements. Could be good, could be gross. We'll see inabout 8 hours.

Dress Quest, Part Deux

2006-02-25T16:40:00.000-08:00

Holy cow, I found one.

It isn't anything like what I thought I would choose. Not like Iwas going for a scarlet red or a blush and bashful kind of a setting,but I really didn't think this dress would be the one. ("Kind oflike the groom." the bridal consultant said.) I would have neverhad selected my fiancee if we had been dating years back. (ThankGod)

I can't give away too much here as my finacee does read the blog. The dress is elegant and simple. It doesn't need one ounce ofalteration. I even bought a veil. I was dead set against aveil. I was dead set against white. I was dead set againstbeading, lace, a train, etc etc etc. It was everything I thoughtI didn't want and yet it suits me. Ironically I found it at astore called The Perfect Dress.

One more thing checked off my list, 20,000 more to go...

Dressing to the Twos

2006-02-20T16:37:00.000-08:00

They say that when you find "The Dress" you just know it. Youwon't want to take it off. For me, I just need to get past thepanic attacks of getting one on.

I began shopping for wedding dresses backwards. I started in thecouture stores (unknowingly) and then scaled back. It was adrastic mistake.

Today I went to David's Bridal, where I should have gone in the firstplace. I have heard either fabulous stories or awful ones out ofthis discounted store. My mom and I began by having toregister. Apparently there was a sale going on so the wait waslong before you got a chance to work with a "weddingcoordinator." I use this term lightly as they were all females,aged 18-21, in belly tees (with large bellies) and stacked heels. As we waited, we were instructed to go through the book (not the racks)and turn down the corners on the pages with the dresses I wanted to tryon. We ignored them and began to go through the racks. Mymother cringed when she felt the fabric. Taffeta vs. silk, tullevs. organza, lace that looks worse than the neighborhood little oldlady's curtains. Believe me, there is a difference. However, we both took our tarnished silver spoons out of our mouths andput on a new attitude.

We sat on the bad teal leather couches in front of the mirroreddoors/dressing rooms and flourescent lighting. Brides-to-bepranced around in the dresses as the coordinators placed ribboned veilsand tiaras on their heads...most of the time, both, at the sametime. Not my choice of style, but whatever. The brides wereall a good 6-10 years younger than I was, most had tatoos on theirshoulders (ever so elegant with a strapless dress), and a few hadmothers in either cowboy hats or missing teeth. We sat there forabout 45 minutes watching the costume changes and offering our Statlerand Waldorf impressions from the peanut gallery. There were somegood dresses for some of the brides, I will say that. However,they were all barely 21, a size 2, and looked like they swapped a promdress for a wedding gown.

As our time drew closer, my Mom and I began to re-evaluate ourmotives. We finally decided that our time would be better spentdoing taxes or budget reports. The best thing about theday? How close it was to Costco so I could get some gas.

Puppy Power

2006-02-17T19:23:00.000-08:00

Puppies are marvelous creatures.

Just when you are having a terrible week at work, they yieldperspective. Their infactuation with the smallest things in theworld gives them sheer joy and reminds you that there is more to lifethan your tiny experience. This week, Edgar has been a Godsend.

On Thursday morning we woke to 8 inches of snow. I opened thedoor for him to go out. He saw the wall of white almost as tallas he is and he backed up with a look on his face like, "Are you crazy,lady? I don't need to pee that bad." In my bathrobe I grabbed thesnow shovel, donned my clogs and began to create a path for him on thedeck. He thought this was nifty. It fell into the samecategory like vacuums, mops, and other fun things that run along thefloor he can chase and attack. I literally have bite marks on myHoover.

He got to the end of the deck and thought this wasn't a big deal. That was until he fell off the steps with a graceful head plant. I couldn't help but giggle. Poor thing. However, he thenfigured out he could bound and bound around in the powder! Idecided to take him outside while I shoveled the rest of the drivewayand sidewalk. For 45 minutes my neighbors could hear Edgargrowling at the shovel, me yelling his name and then the scrape/dump ofthe snow off to the side. It was interrupted every so often byhim bounding around. He finally stopped only because of theimmobilizing snowballs gathering on his underbelly and armpits. (Do dogs have armpits?...well, you know what I'm talking about.) I did the defrosto dog routine in the sink to melt them after carryinghim inside.

It set a nice tone to my Thursday.

Another thing I love about Edgar is him dancing for his dinner. He is the happiest dog I know. Every night I take a bath as aritual of self-care. He usually hangs out in the bathroom with meand curls up on the mat or the pile of clothes. His newest thingis to chase the drops of water that fall down the sides of thetub. He paws at them, licks them up, and just watches themintently as they crawl down. I've begun to enable this behaviorand just let the drops fall from my fingertips at the edge. Itmakes me smile and the puddles are easy to clean up.

The last thing that I love about him is his ability to cuddle. Hewill sleep on top of my chest while I'm lying down on the couch orhe'll curl up beside me in bed. His backbone lining up against mychest and his head on my pillow. Sounds weird to say that youspoon with your dog, but I'm a brave woman to admit it! I likehis warmth, soft sighs, and mini kicks/barks as he dreams his doggydreams of finally getting the elusive squirrel (or at least that iswhat I imagine it to be.)

Edgar reminds me that there is joy when life is simple.

White Rabbit Mad Hatter Date Setting

2006-02-11T20:03:00.000-08:00

The adrenaline has officially worn off. It was a quick euphoricstate for me with the engagement before my panic set in about gettingthings in place. The date. Is it determined by choice or bywhat is available? Try the latter.

I began thinking September would be nice. I checked out thechurch. The first hurdle with the Catholic church is all ofrequirements! Natural family planning class??? A weekendaway for engaged couples??? I doubt my roommate will be my fiance,which in my opinion is a complete waste of a weekend with him. Nope, I'll get to house with another bride to be. Good hell.

Ok, so then onto the reception sites. We began with the 23rdfloor. www.23rdfloor.net My mother and I began theadventure by first getting lost in the parking garage. What waseven better is that it was the WRONG parking garage (already this placewas losing points). We were at the Utah One Center vs. the WellsFargo Building. No worries! A quick jaunt through theGallivan center while avoiding the KUTV offices, and we made our way upto the elevators. We met Ashley, the coordinator, who proceededto show us the space. The atrium looks out over lovely industrialwest Salt Lake! Nothing like showing the out of towners abeautiful smoke stack! Oh, and they also mentioned that since itwas facing west it tended to "get a little warm." Ok, that's anunderstatement. The following rooms looked like places to holdboard meetings or seminars, not weddings. We sat in her officeafter with the caterer while they proceeded to overwhelm us withquestions: plated or buffet? colors? signaturecocktail? type of linens? valet or validations? Weleft, without a validation and $4.00 poorer.

We then went to Red Butte Gardens. www.redbuttegardens.org Beautiful. However the hills would be brown in September and itwas where my future sister in law got married. I'm not intorepeats especially when her's was so spectacular. However, theparking was free!

The following Sunday I took my mom and to-be-mother-in-law up to LogHaven. www.log-haven.com It was quaint, close to nature,elegant, and intimate. So far it was my first choice, but theyhad limited dates left. We began to ponder October.

Memorial grove was next. www.utahheritagefoundation.com/memorialhouse/index.php All I cansay is that it was a historical building with a domed roof and poorfoliage due to the tornado of '99. The wedding coordinator was atrip. She kept saying things like, "The ceremony is all about thelove, but the reception is all about the cash and prizes." Weleft.

I had already decided against Park City venues simply due to logistics,but my love was interested in Alta. Seeing that it was anemotional spot for us and he was in Indy, I took our mothers thereyesterday for a site visit. I have no idea what they were sellinghim over the phone but what I saw was a 1950's nightmare. Thinkasbestos ceiling tiles, canned lighting, tacky curtains, and woodpaneling covered by Indian rugs. The vistas were amazing. But as I toured the lodge I could only think of the Shining.

We spent the next few hours over wine, my fiance on speaker phone, andlists of pros, cons, and finances. My love is not known for hisdecision making ability. He is options man. His step fatherwas the one who called the decision about an hour before it was made.

September 16th, Log Haven. :)

Officially official

2006-01-31T07:09:00.000-08:00

After 23 years of friendship and 3 years of dating, I've beenofficially engaged for 3 days. My love flew in to surprise meFriday night and greeted me at my front door with a bottle ofchampagne. After a small dinner, we sat and listened to DianaKrall, talked, and sipped some bubbly. He mentioned his agonyover the ring and said he wanted my input, again. He pulled outthe current Martha Stewart's Weddings magazine - it has various ringson the cover - and asked if I could see one that I would like. Ilit up and mentioned that I had that same magazine and began to digthrough my pile until I realized there was something glimmering on thefront of his. He had taped my ring on top of a photo ofone. He again asked if I saw one that would work for me. Isaid yes and became quite emotional. I picked up the ring, he putit on my hand, and said, "Marry me." It was an easy decision.

We spent all day Saturday running around to tell family. We sawMom at lunch, called Dad (whose response was, "great, cool."), visitedhis grandparents, my Godmother, his Father, Mom and Stepdad. Dadwas very interested to see the ring, which was odd considering the factthat he never purchased my Mom a ring. Dad was hard to read.

On Sunday my parents threw an engagement party for the families to meetone another (although we already knew each other given the fact thatboth of our families went to the Catholic high school and we wereneighbors so I suppose it was more of a reunion.) It wasn'tawkward, it was so easy and comfortable. When it was time totoast with champagne, his Mom pushed my Father up to the front of theroom and announced that the Father of the Bride was going to give thetoast. Dad was admantly against doing this, but he was put on thespot and did an a wonderful job. People cried, he spoke from theheart.

That night after I took my love, er my fiance, to the airport I askedDad how he was doing. He said he was happy when he heard,although shocked, and then said he felt immediately empty. Hewasn't ready to let me go, but he said he also knows its time.

Saturday Mornings Sans Smurfs

2006-01-14T09:43:00.000-08:00

My grandmother jokes that Edgar is preparing me for children. Since I've adopted him, I haven't slept past 8:00 AM. He'susually trying to rally me about 6 AM, only if he hasn't gotten me upin the middle of the night. This morning was no exception.

I didn't attempt to go back to sleep, but decided to flip on theTV. What happened to the Smurfs? Where were TheLittles? Saturday mornings have seriously declined since the80's. Instead of Heafty trying to charm Smurfette, I found a lotof reality tv shows with kids on NBC, the Discovery channel partneredwith ABC, and CBS is targeting the pre-schoolers with Nick Jr. Itwas terribly disappointing.

The comercials however, had not changed much. You could alwayscount on Ronald pushing cheeseburgers with plastic processed dairyproduct, gross sugary neon fruity drinks, and breakfast foods that haveno nutritional value. I didn't see Barbies, but Bratz. Ok,for future reference, this is not a step up for feminists. Whatparent in their right mind would buy a doll for their child with thatkind of a name? Oddly enough I didn't see a lot of male targetedtoys.

You know the tv is bad when you begin to look forward to the infomercials.

Philosophical Differences

2006-01-11T10:33:00.000-08:00

So it is abundantly clear that my father is firmly against awedding. He believes that money spent on one day is a waste,however he can see justification in paying monthly cable that sucks notonly money but hours and hours of your life into things like food tv,the golf channel, and monster garage. These are about the onlyshows he watches with the exception of Fox News. Fox News is likethe Choose the Right ring for the mormons. Although he's a closetCatholic, he could wear a CTR ring and get away with it just fine.

I've been home sick the past few days. Yesterday my mom came by to keepme company while the plumber was here (long story, needs separateentry) and advised me to take my father to lunch to discuss weddings.

The last time I attempted a Daddy-Daughter heart to heart I was 20 andwas moving in with my boyfriend for the first time. It wasn't adiscussion. It was us meeting at Chop Suey Louie's on campuswhile he let me know under no certain terms that I was, in fact,throwing my life away. It was more of a Dictator-Daughter stabyour heart kind of a deal. You can imagine that my mom suggestingI have a go at round 2 wasn't appealing.

Today I got an email from my future mother-in-law. A little birdtold her that my mom and I had ventured off to the bridal shows thisweekend and she wanted to know ALL ABOUT IT. Ok, not sosubtle. I'm guessing that she does not have secret spies but thather little bird might live in Indy. I haven't written herback. What do I say?

"Gee, I found a bunch of great ideas but they aren't going to happenbecause my father thinks this is a waste, he's broke, and he thinksthat since I'm 30 and didn't jump on the first guy I saw when I was 19he doesn't owe me anything. He thinks its just too bad I waiteduntil I was mature to get my life in order. Apparently I missedout on the clause that if I went to graduate school and became a sucessthen I forfited his assistance with a wedding. Missed thatsmall print there."

In his opinion and my mothers anthropology background, weddings arethere to get the couple set up in a household with the showersetc. In my opinion its a celebration of the merging offamilies. He'll show up to the sucker; he'll even walk me downthe aisle, but the only thing he'll be giving away is his opinion thatthe whole deal is a waste.

Pseudo Bride

2006-01-08T08:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my mother and I went to bridal shows. We realize thatthis may seem a bit premature as there isn't anything sparkling on myhand, but really at this point in time the ring is more of atechnicality. For example: when my love was here over NewYears his mother threw us a pseudo engagement party complete withchampagne and crab. My poor love is just trying to get theperfect ring (we've been shopping for a few months now) and as he toldmy dad during "the talk" he plans almost to a fault. I will justleave my love to planning the proposal issues while I move on and workon the wedding.

Here's the deal: I never was the little girl playing bride when Iwas little. The closest I got was playing dorm room modeled afterDenise Cosby in "A Different World." Little did I know I wasmodeling my fantasy of independence and learning off of a predominantlyAfrican American university. Kids don't pick up on thesethings.

I was a bit shocked when I heard my mom suggest we go to the bridalextravaganza. She married my dad on an ultimatium after dating 4years and agreed to a quick ceremony so she didn't chicken out. My parents for years have been bribing me with eloping with a sum ofcash. However, this is not going to happen.

The first thing I noticed at the bridal show was that I was OLD. This is Utah. These girls are switching their prom dress for abridal gown within the same year. They have you register and thenwanted me to put on a name badge with the date of my wedding. Ok,so we have narrowed it down to a month, but not a day. I began tomake things up. September 30th, sure that's the ticket. Ididn't know if it fell on a Wednesday, Saturday, or what, but itsounded fine. I refused to put on the name badge.

We got there in time for the fashion show. Some DJ's volunteeredto showcase their sound systems as to entice you to book them for THEbig day. The quality sounded like a fisher price recordplayer. I noted the name for the specific purpose of NOT pursuinghim.

Obviously I became uncomfortable during this as I immediately becamecaddy. I began to notice the dresses that were Temple Worthy, towhich I kept running commentary to my mom as, "another TW dress." These dresses are "modest," a.k.a sleeves, no cleavage, etc. Ialso began to notice the models who were shoved into some corsetshowing off their back fat as clevage once they turned to show thetrain. There was one model who thought she was all that. Heavy makeup, dark ratted hair (I think she was trying to look like aVogue photo shoot) and a strut that made you wonder how many hours shespent trying to get it down. She bounced down the runway, staredright into the camera and did her best "America's Next Model"pout. My mom began to hope that she would trip down the catwalkand we couldn't help but giggle.

Another facet of the show was how the emcee kept saying,"Congratulations, Brides!" As if to say, "You finally snared aman! Good going! Your life can now begin!" No groomswere mentioned. It really began to grate on my nerves.

Once the fashon show ended, we ventured on to the booths. Florists, venues, invitations, caterers, photographers and theever-so-popular-but-I-question-how-sanitary chocolate fountains. Blech. At one caterers booth I overheard a very naive bride wholooked like she was 12 and her fiance still with high school acne ask,"So could you just do brownies?" The caterer laughed trying torelieve the insult he just got and the unrecognized faux pas she justmade. The sad thing was, in Utah, to have catered brownies at aWard wedding is hoity toity.

A typical Utah wedding would consist of the Temple in the morning, abridal lunch at the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, then the couplemysteriously disappears for a couple hours only to reappear at the Wardfor the reception. They will stand in a recieving line for hoursand the refreshments will be jordan almonds, punch in a bathroom sizedDixie cup, and perhaps a cookie.

My mom and I cleared the Salt Palace gig within an hour. Wedecided to head to bridal show #2 at the Grand America Hotel. Given the venue, I knew the audience and vendors would bedifferent. I also wisened up to the causal glances at my bareleft hand and promptly switched my amethist ring to my 4thfinger. No Frenze Bridal/Prom Dress show, no Claires Accessoriesfor your big day, no Inkleys photo, no Hampton Inn receptions, and noDavids Bridal. It was first class. We actually saw cakes,scene makers, wedding coordinators, professional photographers, and acouture dress maker. My mom and I left with the rough idea thatneither of us had enough in savings to cover a dress and a cake.

We left with some really good ideas and my mom began to discuss guest lists. All I need now is that ring...

19th Hole and 20 Questions

2005-12-27T20:22:00.000-08:00

Today my family attended a funeral. A family friend of ours losta battle with cancer. My brother and I grew up with the kidswhile our parents bonded over tales of swim team at the 19thhole. Ross was an incredible guy so it wasn't surprising when weshowed up to the viewing and the line stretched out rooms and downhallways. There we stood trying to identify people our familyknew from decades past. Most of these individuals were myparents' age and didn't recognize my brother or I in ouradulthood. In our boredom of waiting to pay our condolences, mymother and I began to identify the bad face lifts and my brother begana game of 20 questions. In grief, you look for distractions orhumor or both. One of our funniest moments is when a familyfriend stopped my brother to ask who the "lovely lady" was withhim. As he turned shades of crimson, my brother flatly remarked,"my sister." Ooh, yeah, what a great date idea! A viewing!

Holiday Spirit

2005-12-24T11:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my Mom and I ran last minute errands for Christmas andstopped to have lunch. We talked about what gifts we still needto pick up, whos making what for which party, which dog is the culpritfor eating the christmas lights off the tree (whole bulb and wiresinluded), and what the wrapping status was on the presents.

Apparently the other night my parents were drinking their festive boxedwine and while my mother was choosing gift wrap, my father wasstewing. The more tipsy they became the worse things got (nosurprise here.) She was hoping that she actually gave the rightpresent to the right recipient and actually as the night wore on shefinally gave up on even signing their names, but resorted to theirinitials. While I snickered at this one imagining my cute femalecousin opening up my brothers boxers, I didn't realize this was thebest part.

My Dad was stewing (we like to call him Chuckles). Chuckles wasdowning the elegant chablis wine getting more and more upset about theneighbors. They went out of town for the holiday and in themeantime all the flowers/plants/gifts have been arriving at myparent's. The neighbor does not like the dogs barking and myfather takes it personally although will not do anything to activelystop the noise. It got to the point where my Dad marched over inthe night (or stumbled as the case may be) to take the delieverynotices off the door and proceeded to unwrap the gifts at hishouse. Once my mother realized what was happening she scolded himand took the delievery notices back to their house and put it in theirmailbox (no way to get them back) and attempted to put the bows back onthings.

Ah, can you feel the love?

The Perfect Gift

2005-12-23T09:03:00.000-08:00

Have you ever found the perfect gift for someone? You know, theexperience where you cannot wait to give them the gift? You startdancing around like you need to pee as they are attempting to untie theribbon and you are thinking, "Just cut the damn thing because you aretaking too long!" I found that gift.

One of my dearest friends has a passion for single malt scotch andwomen who drive stick shifts (how he and his wife now have automaticsin their garage is beyond me.) Every quarter or so he dresses upin his kilt, shows educational videos on the different regions ofScotland, and cons our graphic designer from work to be the pourer fora high end Scotch for a fun fun tasting among friends.

When I first found the dessert plates with different old (perhaps madeup) labels of Scotch on the faces, I knew I found THE gift. However, the pragmatic side of me left them at the store somehowconvinced that I could find an equally wonderful gift without breakingthe bank.

This is when my logic side is damned because I wandered the city forthe next few weeks finding nothing that would compare and kept dwellingon why I didn't follow my gut in the first place and buy the plates tobegin with!!! I went back and got the plates.

When he opened them this week I was estatic. He loved them. He had never seen them. He had them on display in his office (notreally acceptable in Mormon Utah to have ceramics tooting thewonderfulness of liquor in the office). However, he could getaway with it as he is the chaplain who is known for his off coloredremarks and jovial passion about spirits made from peet.

The next day he came in letting me know that he thought the plates weretoo special to serve any food off of them. He was going to make ashelf and have them on display. I assumed this was at his housenear his Scotch shrine, however I wouldn't be surprised if I found theplates between the life sized print of Rembrant's "Prodigal Son," andthe photo of him with the Dali Lama in his office.

Postal Pressure

2005-12-03T09:10:00.000-08:00

Its the time of year that friends and family send their yearly tidingsof joy via Mr. Postman complete with a stamp that has some trendyartistic rendition of the season. My first card arrivedyesterday. Its actually one of the cards I really look forward toevery year. This family is just plain classy. Simple blackand white photographs and a printed message on thick paper and prettyribbon. I actually save this card every year and have a smallcollection of them in a box downstairs.

I find that people send a variety of cards: There are the onesfrom your insurance agent who you don't know from Adam. The cardsthat seem cheap and rushed through. The family picture postcard(usually from my milkman inspiring guilt for me to leave a big holidaytip so he can feed all of the starving children his wife pumped outstanding by the milk truck). The cards from your girlfriends whoalso scrawl their new boyfriend's name at the bottom, however you'venever met the guy and seriously doubt he truly wants to send you"season's greetings with love." And then their are those whoreally come heart felt. They are the ones with personalizedinscriptions that really capture your relationship to the sender, whatthey mean to you, and real wishes that there could be more time spentover coffee sharing lives.

I try to send cards every year, but I find that my numbers aredwindling as my inscription gets more lengthy. They are usuallysent towards the end of the month only because I am aprocrastinator. I have tried several methods of trying to keep ontop of this holiday tradition: I have kept cards from years pastand sent them cards the following years. I once read to writecards the afternoon of Turkey day, but this year I was busy bakingtasteless rolls. Although none of these methods work for me, Istill subscribe to "Real Simple" magazine for the helpful hints thatmay or may not get the ball rolling.

All in all, holiday cards are little gifts that arrive M-Sa fromfriends that mean more to me than any wrapped scarf or pair of earringscould ever give.

The Price of Happiness

2005-10-25T20:31:00.000-07:00

One roll of papertowels shreaded while I was at work: $1.38

Four pairs of shoes chewed up: $250.00 (rough estimate)

Two bottles of "Natures Miracle" miracle solvent: $20.00

Toys that were supposed to be chewed instead of the shoes: $80.00

Gas to travel back and forth from work extra times: $60.00

Orchid chewed up because spanish moss is FUN!: $ unknown as it was a housewarming gift (sorry Aunt Liz!!)

One X-Pen to barricade the kitchen: $80.00 (returned as it didn't work, he's determined to sit in the window to look out)

Home Depot project of plywood, felt stickies, foam tape, and cinder blocks to replace the X-Pen: $40.00

Absolute glee when I come in the door, a cold nose, and a fuzzy body: Priceless

(I won't even begin to account for my Petco bill, adoption rescue fee, or food)

Won't C'ya Be My Neighbor?

2005-09-27T22:23:00.000-07:00

Let me first preface this entry by saying that I have some greatneighbors. They aren't the WysteriaLane-chaining-people-in-the-basement types. In fact I have almosta "nice" war going on with one of them.

The ones to my west and I are in the who can do nice things for theother one first race. It currently is centered around the garbagecans. For the past 3 weeks it is a race to see who will take outboth of our garbage cans and then bring them back in. For therecord, I look like the sucky neighbor. Instead I have thisreally nice older gentleman in really poor health dragging my trash upand down my hill! Ok, so then I thought I would make him browniesor bread or something only to find out that he is diabetic plus haschronic pain and the meds he takes makes him lose his appetite. His grown adult son is so very proud of the new job he got he actuallybrought me one of his bonus's (it was free tickets to a home show, butstill it was a big deal to him.) Yup, bottom line, I suck.

The neighbors to the east of me are a bunch of science geeks. Allbook smarts, practical smarts, ecological smarts, but not a lot ofpeople smarts. These individuals bike uphill in the snow topreserve the ozone. They are also the ones responsible forgetting me set up on the wireless goods. (Yea!) They alsodo projects simply to test their hypothesis if they can actually doit. Last spring the two guys got on top of my roof with theirclimbing gear to help clean out my gutters (they were securingthemselves with harnesses from my chimney simply to improve their rockclimbing skills simultaneously.)

Last weekend they decided to "build" a barbeque. This consistedof rocks, dirt, wood, and the grill off of one of their trucks they areconstantly rebuilding. I didn't know this at the time and camehome to my whole house smelling like a forest fire. Hello? Charcoal? Ever heard of it? I was furious (of course afterit took me about 2 hours to figure out what it was, stop going outsideto smell around the house, and turn off my swamp cooler). I pokedmy head over the fence and asked them to put the fire out. Theydid, but they also apologized I didn't get a proper invitation to comejoin the fun. The next day I found that my lovely aspen pads I soproudly replaced in the spring, are now permanently saturated with thesmell of smoke. Its a good thing its fall. However, in allmy sustained rage I marched over there to tell them again to not everdo that again and that they are welcome to use my BBQ from my porchanytime. They apologized profusely and asked if I wanted to seethe wedding photos. So, yours truly (sans wedding gift or belatedcard) sat down to look at photos of their modest beautiful wedding atsome National monument and feel like a horse's ass.

I figure by now, I'm on eternal garbage duty for both sides.

I'm a Carrie, You're a Big

2005-09-22T20:07:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend is addicted to "Sex and the City." He actually toldme tonight that he would have to call me once the episode wasover.

I actually have all 6 seasons on DVD. I tried to share myenthusiasm two years ago this Christmas. I was snowed in at hisparent's house and brought my first season. His mother sat withus and actually watched the anal sex episode. Not a goodtime. I can't even tell you how many shades of crimson Iturned. As I went off to work the next few days he apparentlytried to understand my passion for the show. I would get messageslike this:

"I can't believe you think guys are like this. There is no way."

"Are you kidding me?! These women treat these guys like crap! Please tell me these are not your role models."

He stopped watching after episode 3. This was ok for me. Iwas tired of trying to defend the analytical Carrie, the sexuallycharged Samatha, the idealistic romantic Charlotte, and the cynicalplaying the man's game Miranda. He was not the typical guy. So my explainations of, "But you see, you aren't the typical guy,"didn't go very well. He could conceed to that point...kind of.

Almost a year later we embarked on the journey of exploring womencelebrating their "fabulousness" in NY. It happened to coincidewith the "fabulous" cable deal, "fabulous" new tv, "fabulous" re-runsof the first season a la The Girls, and the not-so-fabulous me beingpost-op at his place. Maybe he was taking pity on me, maybe hewas pitching some serious woo, but whatever it was, we got to attemptto change his view.

Tonight I was told, "Season Two, episode 21 is on 'Old Dogs, New Dicks'is on! Charlotte is dating an uncircumsized guy, Miranda isdating Steve, and did I tell you how great Big is? He is a funny,cool guy. I mean, really, what is there not to like abouthim? And by the way, you are just as neurotic as Carrie, did youknow that?"

Huh. I've created a monster. Last summer all the rage,according to CoJo was tee shirts that read, "I'm a Carrie," or "I'm aSamantha." Perhaps men will begin to embrace their guiltyaddictions of "Despirate Housewives" or "Sex and the City." Before you know it, there will be a fashion rage of guys wearing tee'ssaying things like, "I'm a Big."

Well, maybe not that phrase. I think women would read WAY too much into a tee shirt that had that phrase on it...

Ring a Ding Ding

2005-09-20T16:13:00.000-07:00

This week I've been focusing on human resource issues. The big focus the past few days has been doing pre-screening interviews for a position. What it usually involves is a lot of phone tag. Because of this delight, I get to experience a lot of different voice mail options people choose.

1. Just the phone digits as the intro. Good points: simple, to the point, factual. Bad points: I'm constantly stammering because I'm double checking the number to make sure I got the right residence. Result: people thinking I'm stupid, inarticulate, and wouldn't want to work for me.

2. The phone tree. Haven't people figured out how annoying these things are when they are trying to reach customer service, let alone, an individual? When I'm trying to call my bank or a doctors office I suffer through them, but I refuse to go through the pain for other reasons. Result: I think they are people avoidant or hyper-organizational (aka obcessive compulsive) and wouldn't want them working for me.

3. Honesty. Ok, I have to admit, I have this one but I haven't encountered it yet on my recent quest. I am so tired of people leaving message after message when it is clear I have not called them back so therefore I don't want to talk to them (huh, maybe I should have a phone tree.) So, after listening to my girlfriends message, I followed suit. "Hi, you've reached me. I'm either not home or I'm screening my phone calls. Leave a message." Isn't that what we're doing anyway? I run to the caller ID everytime and decide by the third ring if I have enough energy to talk with this person...usually I do. However, I also realize this is not a professional message therefore if I'm looking for a job they get my cell number not my home.

4. The baby. Unless your name is Grandma, NO ONE THINKS THIS IS CUTE. I want to throw up everytime I hear some stupid toddler repeating their ever so proud parents prompting of "leave a message," which usually sounds more like, "weave messsge." I write this as a plead to all of those stay at home moms writing blogs about their newborns to please, PLEASE resist the temptation of putting little Suzie on the voice mail. I work for a pediatric facility and even I do not think this is cute!!! You will forever alienate your single friends or set up some strange mommy neighborhood competition to see who's child is more developed to actually enunciate the words!!! Don't do it.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

2005-09-17T00:11:00.000-07:00

Last week I attempted a good faith effort to improve my department's morale and held a retreat. The planning committee was shocked when I actually asked them to plan stuff that was meaningful and work related. Their first agenda included things like board games, walk, movie, mingle time. I sent them back to the drawing board thinking how would I explain to my CEO that it was worth a day of salary dollars for 30 people.

We did the usual ice breakers (which are stupid, by the way because you should know everyone already), a team building scavenger walk (I compromised on this one yet still added more of a point to the activity), and other stuff. When I refer to the "other stuff" I'm talking about all of the touchy-feely things mental health people get off on. We had to "process."

We themed the retreat: transisitions. Also known as: Get over it already, the bus has come, left the station and now you are just being dragged behind it. Processing how all of the transistions affected them over the past few years took awhile. People brought objects to make things safe. I saw everything from pantyhose (my job is a good fit) to a flag (I feel freedom at work to get paid to do something I love) to my personal favorite, a sign mocking our mission written in barbed wire font (I think my boss is a bitch).

We are a family centered organization. Note: I have to explain constantly to my employees that the term, "family," does not mean their personal family, but the patients and families we serve and therefore gives us money. To them, business is a foreign concept. However, not to cause a scene in front of the group when I saw the barbed wire thing I pulled a non-commitmal, "Hum. Interesting."

In the afternoon we did the color code test. If you have ever taken this test, it seems to be more of a parlor trick than others, but its what they decided (another concession on my part). I am the only red personality in my whole department. Reds are the decision makers, the power guys, the action people. However, I am a close second of blue. Blues are the do-gooders, the morally just, and the intellectuals. The Whites are the peace keepers. They tend to be boring, quiet, and their motto is very Rodney King-esque. The Yellows are motivated by fun. Fun, fun,fun! People people, flashy, a bit funny, and a bit inconsistent, but Fun! I only have one yellow in my department and wouldn't you know, she is the only one besides me who can't figure out why everyone is so invested in feeling stuck. Afterall, being stuck isn't fun!

Nope, wouldn't you know it I have a whole department of blue/whites. They feel bad, know that they are justified in feeling bad, and won't tell anyone outright because they wouldn't want to rock the boat. I actually had someone say, "You can't put a timeline on my grief." Ohhkay, well sister it has been 2 years!!! Kleenex called and they want to put you on the board of directors because you alone increased their stock value!!! Winnie the Pooh called and wants you to play the part of Eeyore in their next Heffalump movie!! (Ok, why I even know there is a Heffalump movie is scary, but I blame it on the line of work I'm in.) Point is: get over it!

When I spoke to my mentor, another red/blue split, later in the week she said, "Well that explains a lot. You need diversification in that rainbow you've got over there." Yup, mixing blue and white (depending on the hues of course) could wind up being a really drab light grey-blue. (Again, not fun!)

Mormon Mardi Gras

2005-09-09T12:21:00.000-07:00

I have been working out at Camp Williams part of the time. For those of you in the dark, this is the evacuee site for Utah. About 300 or so remain, which is a far cry from our expected 2000. These poor individuals have been plucked off of roofs, rescued from the convention center, or survived the Superdome. There is no rhyme or reason to who was brought here. This is the poorest of the poor, mostly African American, Baptist, single, disabled, from East New Orleans. They have witnessed atrocities of people getting their throats slit, bullet-ridden bodies, rotting corpses, babies dehydrated, and the elderly raped. I have heard a lot.

In my opinion, the media has treated these individuals like zoo animals. Everywhere you turn a camera is being stuck in their faces. African Americans are a novelty here in Utah. Which is unfortunate. However, they should remember they are people not the newest attraction.

I have been to East New Orleans once. We were warned not to go there because of the crime and because I was White. A group of students went to a nightclub and I was invited because I was the girlfriend of an African American. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Our night ended because there was a violent fight on the dance floor.

It boggles me how people are opening up their homes to others. I realize everyone is assuming good intent, but really what we really need is some caution. For one, you don't know if these individuals are the perpetrators or the victims at the convention center. You don't know if they are the looters or the rapists.

I spent all day Sunday trying to procure things like eyeglasses, dentures, shower chairs, hearing aids, etc. I also helped set up a mental health clinic, a triage group to go out to the dorms, and some group debriefings. When we presented our plan to the State, we were told we needed buy off. From who? They really didn't know. The problem is they didn't know who was in charge. Was it FEMA? Health and Human Services? Red Cross? Governor’s office? Dept of Homeland Security? No one knew. It was the same disorganization that the Nation is seeing on a smaller scale. Too many good intentions, not enough leaders.

Efforts were concentrated the past few days on playing concierge. How do we get people outta here if they have ANY connection outside of Utah. You can imagine quite a few do and they were pretty baffled by the mountains. However, some I spoke with told me they were staying here. It was clean, pretty, and we were nice to them. They liked the mountains (although didn't believe they were real at first) but they didn't exactly know where they were on the map. No one told them they were coming to Utah. One guy remarked he thought it was a really long plane ride to get to Houston.

I wonder when will the novelty wear off? I wonder when Utah will realize we have just inherited a lot of poor, homeless, disabled people...I mean, we really didn't take care of the ones we have already. When will the LDS church realize these individuals are strong in their faith base and they don't have a bunch of new converts? When will the evacuees discover our liquor laws and find out that Fat Tuesday is not a National holiday? What will happen then?

Mormon Mardi Gras. They throw Books of Mormon everytime someone yells, "Preiate C'ya." and shows off their garments. Everyone is hyped up on caffeine free coke and kool aid vs. alcohol. They could have Harry Connick, Jr. do a special number jazz style of "I am a Child of God." And instead of parade floats, they could do hand carts!!! Oh wait, that already happens...Days of 47.

Denouement

2005-09-09T12:10:00.000-07:00

The word, "denouement," is French. It means the events following the climax of a drama or novel in which such a resolution or clarification takes place For some reason I thought my 30th birthday would signify a denoument in my life. I couldn't have been farther from the truth. I haven't achieved resolution or clarification about anything.

29 was a traumatic birthday for me, more so than 30. It was the end of my twenties and I only had one year left to cling to the idea of being young and free. I did a lot in that decade. I graduated from undergrad and graduate school. I moved in and out of my parents house about 8 times. I was a vet tech, a pastry chef, and a social worker. I lived in three different cities and figured out how to live on $80 a month. I figured out who I didn't want to be with romantically and I figured out who I did. I found incredible friends and I realized that some were only there for a little while.

On the otherhand, there are things I am glad to be rid of that I did in my twenties. Skills I acquired: how to do a keg stand, how to play the politics of a sorority, how to drink and dial ex-boyfriends, and how to do late night last minute school projects. There were many mornings I would stand in the shower and cringe of embarressment of whatever I did the night before.

I wonder what my thirties will bring. Perhaps it will bring more self-confidence and less shower anxiety.

Angels Among Us...

2005-09-02T06:44:00.000-07:00

I have heard from a number of friends in NOLA either by phone oremail. I've decided to share an email from a friend who is a NICUnurse at Ochsner Hospital. Here is her story...

HELLO

I am at Ochsner. I am well and dry, well sweating not dry. NO water up her but it is rising around us. I am sending this message to all of you because I know that you may speak to my family and you could tell them that I am well, just hot. We have no power except for red outlets so no ac, tv or any lights in the bathroom. Try shaving your legs in the dark, ha ha . I am in a tank top and shorts that I have worn for 2 days. I am washing my clothes in the dirty water. I even showered int the brownish red water. Who cares it was dark and I did not see it, besides it felt so cool. We have no ice that is edible. We are going to be on 20/20 on Thrusday at 9 pm. I have a pt gown on and am feeding the most beautiful baby girl. I have greasy hair and I look like sh..---You understand. I am well and joking about things. I have not seen my house but I know that I am unable to talk with Chris. He stayed home and then evacuated yesterday. I spoke with his aunt in TX wwhere he is going and she said that he is going there and my house has damage but she does not know how much. I hope that all of you are safe and I am thinking of you.

We have started sending pts out to TX, AL, and Baton Rouge. The nurses in BR came down and brought us ice chest full of clean ice and cold drinks. They came to get the kids and they saw what we were dealing with and the felt sorry for us. They ROCK!!! We are going to be helping out in the hospital. I am so glad that I have adult experience. I may need it. Well got to go.

LOVE YOU ALL,

Have a great day or night whatever it may be.

Thar She Blows

2005-08-30T20:59:00.000-07:00

So Katrina was officially erased off of my list of possible future girl names (not like it was ever seriously on it). But truly, there is nothing to describe the feeling of seeing footage of your ex-boyfriend's apartment flooded.

New Orleans has a special place in my heart as I lived there for my 18 months of graduate school. I remember hurricanes coming and going. The one I remember the most is Georges in '98. By the time the "G" names got around I was getting to be a seriously seasoned boat driver (a.k.a. my Subaru floating down a street hoping my tires would make contact with something solid underneath it to propel it anywhere but into the car next to me). Flooding was not unusual for the city. I sloshed through campus in knee high water or a bit deeper a couple of times to class and once had to climb in through a window. I also remember watching the freshmen take there ever so charming dorm decor of inflatable couches, float on them and then try to catch the bumper of a passing car down the "river."

During most hurricanes, the joke of the locals is just to sit it out and drink. I wasn't complaining. But then Georges was on his way. It was the same scenario of THE worst-possible-situation. The Weather Channel may have had its special radar, but if you were a local you watched an old guy by the name of Nash with his dry erase board plotting the hurricane hour by hour. Nash knew it all! He was more accurate than technology and he even predicted it hitting Gulfport in the last bit. I'm sorry to hear Nash died not to long ago.

I think that hurricanes are the worst of the disasters only because you become an information junkie. The Weather Channel or news is on 24/7. You don't sleep very well and are really worried that you missed something if you aren't watching it for some reason. Hour by hour, your anxiety builds wondering if you will be hit.

When the city was told to evacuate, the students from out of town were truly stuck in their dorms. Some parents flew their kids home last minute, others rented cars and carpooled inland. I thought I was in trouble when my friends who were bonafide locals decided to flee, but I knew I was in trouble when Nash dropped his marker and just said those who stayed had no hope. A group of us (UT, CA, MD, TN, NY) had decided to stay mostly by default.

We got our provisions of rental movies, water, alcohol, and food and hunkered down. We were set until our dorm advisors found us and evacuated us by Tulane's president's orders to another dorm. Our new "home" was the glass palace. It looked like a small version of the Hyatt in NOLA.... a vertical evacuation lined with glass. Yeah, that made no sense to me at all considering my residence was stone and 3 stories up, but whatever.

I called my mom and grandmothers and off we went. Our comfy space was the hallway where they never turned the lights off. (Think of an elementary school hallway with the hard linoleum and florescent lights.) I thought of going back, but I am too much of a rule follower to the point that we turned our hated suite-mate in to the RA's and she was brought back.

I remember watching the windows shift from being concave to convex in seconds and wondering when they would burst. I watched the goal post of the practice field sway like it was a flower stem in the wind. It was a rough few days.

They fed us packed lunches of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches 3 meals a day. I have to say the best part was finding another graduate student in our program in the building who let us stay with her for awhile...no more hallway.

When the skies cleared, we weren't able to leave (much like those in the Superdome now). Talk about stir-crazy. It didn't make sense for us to be locked in while the sky looked perfectly blue. In the end, I think I did sneak out back home. It was a relief to see my windows in tact, doors locked, and no water damage. It was a great feeling.

I can't imagine how my friends feel now. I've been told they cannot return for another week according to marshal law, and they still aren't certain what they have to return to. Just like me, they are scouring the video footage for landmarks and street signs, trying to see if it is in their neighborhoods or some place they recognize under the murky cafe au lait poisoned water. There are three friends in particular that I hold deep in my heart and I am truly grateful to have heard from them. They are safe and coping the best they can.

Vulnerability of disaster strikes all races, classes, ages, and gender. It has a tendency to almost "wipe the slate clean," which is hard to do in such a regal city like New Orleans. I have never been in such a polarized place of the haves and have nots. Looting is enraging, but not surprising.

My heart breaks every time I see the footage, learn more statistics, hear more stories, and make that personal connection. The city, and those who know it, will never be the same.

Hit the Road, Jack

2005-08-06T09:08:00.000-07:00

It took a week, but my brother and I decided that you cannot return home or whatever concept is related to it. Living together as adults was a disasterous experiment. And in the end, it was good he left before our semi-relationship was sacrificed further. It does take two to tango and in this accountability, I realized that I assumed a lot.

Assumption #1: Living together will mean we will spend more time together. Not so much. He never came home Friday night and the most I saw him Saturday was 10 minutes before and after he took a shower. When he was home, he was secluded in his room with video games. We never did have dinner together or even watch television.

Assumption #2: My brother has matured. See the video game comment above. Also you could have buried my illusions in the piles of clothes on the floor.

Assumption #3: We can communicate. Yeah, do you count the minutes when he's standing with his hand on the door leaving?

On Monday night he came home, stood as far away from me as possible, and announced he was moving out. I already knew this because my Father and I had just hung up the phone. Dad was wondering why my brother called him in tears wanting to crash on the couch. All I did was ask that his room be picked up by tonight. Man, I'm such a meanie!

My brother's biggest argument was that I acted too much like a mother to him. I was too concerned about his life (however, it is hard not to be when he dumps his whole life drama on your lap the first night he's there). What is the funniest part to me is that he decided to return home to Mom.

Brotherly Love

2005-07-27T15:32:00.000-07:00

"There once was a woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many guests she didn't know what to do."

This is my newest situation. Somehow while I was braving the awful Midwest heat index last weekend, my brother accidentally moved in with me. Its rather odd, I'm not going to lie. He called Saturday and asked if he could "rent the garage" for his stuff. He apparently decided to terminate his lease so he could move to a better place, but didn't realize there was a gap in time...3 weeks or so. When I asked where he was planning on staying, he didn't know. Ah, so the real issue emerged! Having his bed and whatnot in my garage and him homeless didn’t make any sense. So of course, I invited him to stay. He got the keys from my parents and I came home to his official residence being my back room for the next bit.

This was a lot to handle as I have not lived with my brother since I was 19 or 20. You have to understand that my brother doesn’t really call me unless there is a major life crisis. Dad is in the hospital. I’m thinking of breaking off my engagement. Those kind of things, so when I got the call Saturday I had a little post traumatic response going on. However, he is my brother and I will always be there to help. I’ve also always wanted us to be closer so I’m hoping this time together will be bonding.

To make things a bit more complicated, one of my dearest friends showed up on my doorstep last night about 10:15 needing a place to crash for a couple of days. She is now on the aerobed in the third bedroom downstairs. She will be with me until tomorrow night. However, she is not the point of this entry so I’ll move along…Even though I had been up since 3 AM MDT to catch flights and I had a rough day at work, I still couldn't sleep very well. Psychologically trying to wrap my brain around so many people in my space was difficult.

Although a decade had passed, some things hadn’t changed. He still had laundry piles around the bedroom and a basket to be washed in the basement. He had jimmy-rigged his Nintendo/Game Cube/X-Box/Evil Male Time Robbing Machine so that it could be eye level while he was in bed. This was done by precariously stacking the TV on top of a stool on top of a few cardboard boxes. His toothbrush was randomly placed in the shower although my toothpaste was half gone. Instead of empty coca-cola cans, there were beer bottles.

Other things hadchanged. He asked if I needed something when he went to the store. He was so appreciative of letting him crash at my place. He gave me privacy when I wanted to talk to my boyfriend on the phone. In fact he was so concerned that he didn’t want to interfere with the way I did things he was always checking if I usually sleep with the A/C on or what time I usually got up in the morning.

It was strange to realize he wasn’t the personification of my little brother I had in my head. He is a grown man with real grown up problems, but someone who always knows that his big sister will be there on the playground to stick up for him no matter what.

I take thee...

2005-07-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

Once a month I get together with nine fantastic women for a book group. It is not like some book groups where the literature is just an excuse to get together and gossip. We actually discuss the book. Last night was our 7-year anniversary.

The group spans about a 40-year age gap and life experience. We have social workers, nurses, a bookkeeper, a writer, a teacher turned mom, an entrepreneur, and a couple of individuals who work at a local university. These women have traveled the world, hiked mountains in Africa, married their soul mates, survived tragedy, saved lives, had children, some divorced and remarried, and have been the strength of their families. I am very proud to be part of this group.

Last night we discussed The Mermaid's Chair by Sue Monk Kidd over a variety of hors d’oerves, wine, and a sinful dessert. I began reading it because I loved The Secret Life of Bees. It wasn’t such an easy read in comparison. As one of the women remarked, it was a mix between The Thorn Birds and a pressured second-book deal for the author. I thought it was ok, but the more we discussed it, the more I realized I had strong feelings about it.

We posed questions among ourselves of things like: What would be a deal breaker for a relationship? What is the significance of Jessie referring to her lover by his monk name vs. his given name when she was talking to her husband? These all seemed like benign questions the literature stirred up for us and in the process of answering them, we revealed secret parts of ourselves to the group.

And then a passage was read that involved the protagonist marrying herself in some stupid ocean ritual before she went back to her husband. What the??? Oh, the women in the group thought this was wonderful and I thought it was contrived, cheesy, and counterfeit. Marrying yourself? Either you’re for the home team or you aren’t. How can you marry yourself when you don’t spend any time by yourself? This woman went from her husband of many years to a monk lover back to her husband!!! The only time spent by herself was at her monk’s sanctuary while she was waiting for him!! Being in serial relationships does not allow you to court yourself, get to know you, and then commit to always being faithful to yourself and not abandoning your principles.

I have done the affair thing and I have done the serial relationship thing. During that time in my life I thought I knew what I wanted and who I was. In reality, I hadn’t a clue. Its like Julia Roberts in “The Runaway Bride” where she likes her style of eggs the way her current fiancé likes his eggs. She doesn’t know!! It wasn’t until I made the conscious decision to really commit to myself and be alone for a while that I discovered I really liked myself. I am independent, ethical, interesting, and smart. I enjoy being by myself.

People fill up their lives with people because they are afraid of being alone. Its one thing to be lonely and another to choose to be alone. I have felt lonely in a crowd and in a relationship. To choose to be alone is empowering. It is a state of being, not a feeling.

The more I talked, the louder I became, and the more I gestured. Apparently I was very passionate about this. When I finally stopped a few were laughing at me and others just had an expression of confusion/concern. Ok, well it hit a button for me. A big, red, flashing button that said, “push me.” I had to stop and wonder why it got hit.

As I sit in limbo land of this current relationship I have to wonder what is at stake. Am I being faithful to myself by staying and sticking out the waiting period or am I self-sacrificing? As a friend put it, “I know there is a right decision out there, but it will only be apparent in the future.” No wonder my button got pushed. What’s even more ironic is that I’m waiting for the stupid ritual of declaration of dedication…not by me, but by someone else. My button didn’t get pushed, it got hit by a ton of bricks.

Today I head back to the land of cornfields and tent revivals. One of my employees asked if she should get the officepool going again. I came home from Hawaii to find one posted about my pending engagement. She was joking and I just shook my head. The reality is I’m already married…to myself.

Hello, my name is...

2005-07-19T20:59:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I went to a baby shower for my cousin who is married to a guy from Columbia but they now live in Toyko. (Did everyone get that?) My aunt hosted it and I got to see relatives that only come out for big family events like showers or funerals...this was a much happier time.

The shower was lovely. I usually hate showers. You typically do not know a lot of people, there is a lot of polite conversation over finger food, and you generally feel rather self-conscious about the wrapping of your gift.

Not with this shower. Everyone was meshing well and the conversation turned to blogs. Does everyone know "lucy's spleen?" Did you know that readers are sending money to "suburban bliss" to go to a bloggers conference? What about the protest of "dooce" and her elimination of comments?

And then I had a funny experience. One of the women in the room turned to me and said, "Wait a minute, don't you have a blog?"

I began to feel the blood drain out of my face as I quickly mentally scanned the content of my entries and felt flattered all at the same time. This woman knew me before she knew me!

She said it was funny that on her blog (a la inspiration of my cousin, same as my story) she had a quiz of how well people knew her. Turns out her readers scored higher than her own family or boyfriend. (As soon as I get her site, I will link it to mine.)

Every once in awhile I scroll down to see how many readers have checked out my entries. It always amazes me. I guess I just want to thank my readers. Thanks for being interested, sending comments/emails, and coming back. :-)

Editorials Unsolicited

2005-07-16T08:36:00.000-07:00

This week I had my quarterly visit with my psychiatrist. I realized I had very little to talk about in therapy as my life has been going relatively smoothly. No lightening bolts have hit, no lotteries won; you get the picture. Really how is it that a 15 minute time slot can really be operationalized into more than just a med check?

I brushed over work issues and the politics involved to which he responded, "Your job is too emotional." I think he realized I was stonewalling so he began to ask about what my boyfriend was up to and how the relationship was going. I simply mentioned that he was on the palliative care consulting service this month for his rotation. His face contorted like he had sucked on a lemon. So much for the blank page theory of Dr. Freud. I reassured him that actually my boyfriend was finding enjoyment in his work this month and he also really enjoyed working on the hemetology/oncology service as well. At that point in time he hit me with this social commentary:

"You guys are a match made in heaven. Both of you are drawn to situations that are truly utterly hopeless."

I couldn't help but laugh.

Time Traveler

2005-07-04T12:49:00.000-07:00

As one of my dear friends said, my bad luck with traveling a la boyfriends is over. Hawaii was a success. We had a great time snorkeling at Shark's Cove, sea kayaking with the sea turtles, hiking the rainforests, and hanging out in the quaint town of Haleiwa. For all intents and purposes, it was amazing.

I was astounded how well we did around each other. There never was a time where I needed alone time. I didn't scare him off with my tantrums (and there was one when we were snorkeling and I was pushed up against the reef in low tide by the strong current.) He reframed me as a mermaid with her siren call luring men into their deaths. Really I was cursing him under my breath, screaming into my snorkel tube, and trying to blame him for me following him out to sea (even if it was by my own volition.) Talk about psychotic optimism on his behalf.

Several friends (mostly guys) predicted that it would be the trip I would get engaged. Not so much. There were conversations about marriage (go figure, all initiated by me) that were left in a high degree of vagueness.

Typical Conversation:

Me: What are we doing?

Him: I don't know.

Me: What are the obstacles?

Him: I don't know.

Me: This isn't very reassuring.

Him: I'm sorry you feel that way. We are getting married. I love you. I told you I was slow.

Me: Evolution is faster than this relationship.

He will then go into a scientific explaination of why that statement isn't true, how time is relative, and if he's really on a roll, he'll bring in quantum physics vs. Neutonian physics into the conversation. Don't get me wrong, part of his charm that I love is his geek speak, its just kind of hard to take when I know I'm working with matters of the heart.

We looked at the pictures from our trip at a family dinner party the night before he went back to Indy. His Mother and Grandmother both asked where the ring was, I just shrugged my shoulders thinking they were asking the wrong party. Easy to ask because if you look at the pictures in this entry, they are very romantic.

I hate to admit I'm one of "those" girls. Where the hell is my ring? It becomes more apparent as now every single one of my girlfriends is married or newly engaged. (This all occurred within the past couple of months for me to be the last one standing by the way...I lie, two are still relatively single.) Don't get me wrong, it is not a race to the altar...the only one I'm racing is myself and the strange ticking of my biological clock.

The more I bring up the marriage thing the more I begin to feel like the crocodile in "Peter Pan" stalking Captain Hook. Tick tock, tick tock. He says he's aware of my clock and has been for the past 2 years.

Time is a funny thing. It can work to your advantage, like building excitement before a trip. Or it can be a disservice, like when you are late. He is typically late because he is slow or distracted. I am typically late because I overestimate what I can accomplish in a small amount of time. Perhaps our relationship is "late" because of all of these reasons. I just wonder how much more time it will take. In nicer terms, he is on "island time" which is typical of the Hawaiian lifestyle...fitting with this entry I suppose.

Aloha.

Rappin' about Rap

2005-06-04T16:51:00.000-07:00

I'm a closet hip hop fan. Its not a secret that I have various artists in my collection, but I never listen to it around others. Number one, I feel too old and number two, I feel too white. Nothing like a 29 yr. old jamming out to Eve in the not so diverse Salt Lake.

For any of you who have seen "Office Space" all I can think of is that scrawny white guy rapping (kind of) to "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta" in his car and then quickly turning it down when he passed an African American. Yeah, not so much. The movie drives me nuts, but that scene is funny. I've thought a lot about this issue of rap/hip hop and have mostly approached it from a sociological/feminist analysis. I think I over-intellectualize it so it seems more rational to me.

I've been told that rap actually stands for rhythmic american poetry. Whether that is true, I haven't a clue. They say that most of the sales of rap come from young white teenage boys. This is not to say that the Black culture isn't purchasing the music, they are, but just think who really has the economic power to buy the cd's.

I usually listen to this music when I'm cleaning or needing some sort of energy (windows and doors shut however). I dated an African American a few years ago. I can honestly say I am out of touch with the scene and lingo. When I was with him I was SHOCKED by how much violence, adultery, sex, anti-women lyrics he jammed out to. I began to wonder if the music we listen to really reflects who we identify with.... I should have listened to my gut as he cheated on me several times.

For the record, I mostly have pro-feminist power hip hop.

Home Depot, round II through V

2005-05-23T12:34:00.000-07:00

You can call me Ms. Queen of the Swamp Cooler. I've now attempted to fix a leak in the water tubing with some sort of space age goo and tape (failed), re-did the tubing from the cooler to the main water line (complete with compression valves), and have bought other things to fix things like the water level, the mineral build up and something to do with the bearings.

This is what kills me: my father. He is not Mr. Handy. His idea of help is to hand you the yellow pages. However, before or after the fact when you are just pondering the project he tells you how easy it is to do yourself. He'll even throw out a few terms that makes him look like he knows what he's talking about.

"Sure you just get the drill bit for the metal, get your hack saw, make sure you have roofing tar on hand, and that's all there is to it." ~Dad

Uh huh.

However, when you ASK for his HELP he will tell you he is too busy, too old, or he already went through that part in his life. The man won't even show up for supportive measures. By the way, he's only 53 and when he says he's busy, that is code for I'm-watching-Golf TV/Food Channel. It is the most maddening thing ever.

In the meantime, I've been hanging out with Larry, the Home Depot guy dedicated to the swamp cooler section. He helped me with the tubing and other how-to's all day yesterday (all 3 trips in the course of 6 hours.) Larry has been great.

I'm certain this saga isn't over yet...

People say the darnest things...

2005-05-18T16:07:00.000-07:00

I love quotations. For a while I’ve been gathering them for scrapbooks or just great sayings that I put up in my office. I go for the more original ones than those stupid “Achievement” or “Teamwork” or “Persistence” quotes with some stupid photo of a sunrise or other nature scene. I find those to be just cheesy.

I’ve always loved quotes. In junior high, I ran with the nerds. They were my homies. Yup, we were livin’ it up in the science lab! Our idea of fun was to keep a running quote book that were random sayings taken completely out of context and written down in a spiral notebook. A teacher finally confiscated it from us and we all got sent to the principal’s office. I think that was my only time I ever got sent to the principal’s office. But the real point of me telling you this is to show how much I love quotations.

About a year ago I rediscovered a paperweight in a store in Minneapolis. I originally bought one for my girlfriend when she graduated from law school years ago and always regretted the fact that I never got one for myself. I now have it sitting by my stapler. It reads: what would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail? What a great message!

Then there are those quotes that really just can’t fit anywhere although they ring in my mind. I’ll keep the quotes anonymous.

“Remember, there is no cure for stupid.” ~ A nurse from our E.R. She was referring to the families who either come in for stupid reasons who think the condition requires emergent care as well as the families who come in after their own stupidity caused the child’s injury. Think of the families who do things like let their child jump on trampolines surrounded by rocks. Or let their child run barefoot by the lawn mower. Or let their child suck on hangers in department stores and then are shocked when it becomes lodged in the palate. (All of these are true scenarios that have occurred multiple times in my 5 years of working in the ER.) While this quote is funny to me, it is not appropriate for me to display in either a scrapbook or in my office.

“You can’t kill dead grass.” ~ One of my best girlfriends from New Orleans. I figure this must be a southern saying or something that her grandmother used to say.

“That ring is going to get a lot of use and it may as well be by you in the meantime.” ~Grandmother referring to the family heirloom engagement ring my brother just got back from his ex-fiancée. (My mother was trying the ring on at that moment.) We’re not certain if she was referring to his dating habits/commitment issues or what, but it struck a funny bone in us.

“Its not medicine, its voodoo.” ~Boyfriend currently working on the newborn intensive care unit. While it is very funny, it is also kind of true. I think about the tiny babies getting stuck with needles, tubes, etc. I’m guessing that he will never become a neonatologist. Again, it is not an appropriate quote for work.

People say funny things, whether it’s appropriate or not. Be careful what you say because it might be immortalized in a quote book or in a blog!

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Ms. Home Depot Wannabe

2005-05-15T18:58:00.000-07:00

I’m one of those people who become mesmerized the minute I walk into a Home Depot. It is a store brimming with possibilities. The smell of the lumber and tantalizing orange aprons just sets me spinning. Before you know it I have some Cajun accent in my head from The Water Boy, “You can do it!” I think I’m delusional.

The only section in the store that I feel remotely comfortable in is the Lawn and Garden department. I know my perennials from my annuals. I can weed with the best of them. Anywhere out of this comfort zone and I’m one vulnerable chicka.

Perhaps it was the masochist in me today, but I decided I was feeling well enough physically to completely devastate my self-esteem by thinking I could do a home project. Actually I took on two. I got my evaporative cooler ready for the summer and I decided to build a screen for one of my windows.

The aspen cooling pads were a mere $2.67 x 3…match that with the new ladder I bought and that took the project up to $50.00. Ok, so then I decide window screens can’t be that tough. I needed to make a screen 36 x 36 (or at least this is what my father measured the night before.) I bought the kit, the hack saw, fiberglass mesh, and some rolling tool thingy. I had no idea what a hacksaw was until today. This project was now up to about $60.00. I figured, no time like the present so I bought aweed whacker as well. Home Depot is not a cheap place to go.

I got home and went straight to work. I pulled down the old panels of my cooler looking like a pro. There were big fat wires holding the old pads in place. How do I get the pads out? I was only five minutes into my new project (on my front lawn by the way looking ever so classy) when I had to break down and call Dad. He was of no help. I almost called my Uncle Dave (who is Mr. Handyman and currently is my hero), but I decided, no I was smart enough to figure this out! I went back inside and read my Home Depot: 1, 2, 3 book.

While biding my time, I cleaned the swamp cooler on the new ladder I now had. I hooked up the water from the basement and then went back out to look at the panels on my front lawn. Yup, they weren’t fixing themselves.

Ok, new tactic! We’ll build the screen! I went in, re-measured the space, and used my hacksaw to cut the metal frame. I fit it all together and was feeling mighty good about myself even when I put the screen into the frame. Then I go into my garage to put my trusty new tool away.

I need to pause here to remind everyone that I am a new homeowner. I still am learning things as it has only been 10 months. That is my disclaimer. So, I went into my garage and what do I find? Oh, the original screen for the window. Never saw it.

I took both to the window and again climbed up my ladder. The new one I fashioned doesn’t exactly fit. Well, the old one doesn’t exactly fit. The house has settled a bit since construction in 1912. I went with the old screen and put the one I built back into the garage.

In the meantime, Mom showed up with chips, salsa, and beer. (Go Mom!) She looked at the panels on the front lawn and began to yank on the wire. It popped out! Why I didn’t think to do that…ok, well I did, but I was too much of a wuss and began to catastrophize things like I would poke an eye out. When it was all said and done, both projects were done…just in time for the cooler weather and rain forecasted tomorrow.

The Land of Denial

2005-05-06T15:41:00.000-07:00

I don’t do sick well. (Nice pun to start the entry, eh?) To be ill is to be a burden. I mean, really it is my job to work with sick people, not be a sick person. I’m not one to get a cold or a simple virus, oh no, when I get sick I do it with gusto.

I’ve been known to catastrophize and then minimize my symptoms. I’ve also been known to think that I have made up my symptoms. I begin to think I’m a hypochondriac or worse, I begin to self-diagnose a la the DSM-IV. Surely it’s better to have malingering disorder and be crazy than to actually need surgery, right? Typically I go through the illness and then after wonder if I exaggerated symptoms.

These are my typical thoughts: Did I really need that knee surgery? (Even though I kept dislocating it every time I swam.) Did I really have that much pain to be prescribed painkillers and go to the ER? (Even though I was sent for an appendectomy and kept inpatient for 5 days.)

My current, and yes, greatest is: “Did I just imagine the blood in my urine?” Surely I’m making this up right? This all began last Friday night when I seriously stared into the toilet bowl for about 5 minutes wondering if I was supposed to be having accompanying pain. I gave it another hour. Nope, still blood. Huh. I began to self-assess. (This is a dangerous proposition for someone who is used to medical trauma and knows that the nurses make fun of the stupid reasons people think they need the ER.) Yup, I had an airway, circulation and I was breathing, ok so I must be fine! And then doubt set in. I know! I’ll call my doctor boyfriend (never mind that he lives 2000 miles away)! He didn’t seem that concerned so I waited until morning when I asked my Mom. She was extremely concerned. Ok, so my ER viewpoint is a bit skewed, I’ll admit it.

Long story short, I have been in and out of the doctors, on medication, finally felt the pain, given more pain meds, had blood work, CT’s, referrals to specialists, etc.. I’m really not supposed to be at work right now, but I keep thinking I’m not that sick. They aren’t really certain what is wrong with me except that my tests are all abnormal. (I keep thinking they will say, “We didn’t find anything,” but they don’t.) Ok, so it’s a little scary because my Grandmother just died from bladder cancer and my boyfriend already saw his ex-girlfriend through a kidney transplant. But really, I don’t feel that sick.

What does really settle in is the emotional piece. I think I’m different. Other people get sick, I don’t. I’m not certain how much to share with people. Apparently I look sick (keep getting comments), but I can’t stand the pity. I’ve seen chronic illness cause divorce, bankruptcy, grief, and dependence (whether on the medical system, loved ones, or medication). I don’t want any of that…then again, who does? (See, this is where the catastrophizing piece comes in.)

I tried staying home Monday. I was tempted to go out and garden, so then I felt guilty that I stayed home. I could hear my Mother’s voice, “If you’re sick enough to stay home, you are sick enough not to go play.” However, when I spoke to my doctor she thought I should be home. (Doing what?!?)

I don’t have a solution…they haven’t come up with a medical test for that one yet.

The Power of Trees

2005-04-29T15:34:00.000-07:00

Today we had an Arbor Day celebration here at work. I have to admit, I never knew there were so many grown men so passionate about trees. The State arborist actually wrote a poem for the kids and researched out what tree could be planted in all 5 states we cover as a hospital. The kids were given a copy of the poem with some tree seeds on their lunch trays. When I heard that these zealots were coming I couldn’t help but have a vision of some big burly forest ranger dude with graying hair in a ponytail and some teacup poodle dog named Muffin. Why Muffin, you ask? Well really what else are you going to call a small dog owned by a burly guy? (And I just assumed a guy who wrote poetry was sensitive and wouldn’t have his masculinity called into question by owning small pets, wearing the color lavender, and proud that he could make a mean quiche.)

My director was ecstatic about the new plans of this celebration. Someone from the Mayor’s office, the governors wife, city and state arborist and some wanna be Josh Grobin guy showed up with the media. We shuffled kiddos into the playroom and they messed around with glitter as official proclamations were read. Made me wonder, these guys do know it’s a children’s hospital, right? Proclamations mean nothing when you are 6 years old. I began to snicker to myself in the back of the room at this point in time while I wondered which ranger would be bursting into song with the set up cheesy synthesizer by the podium. The gov’s wife looked a bit plastic as she took the stage. Mary-Kay (perfect name) showed up in her pink suit with her pink matching pumps and pink lip-gloss. She read her note cards with the official seal on them and wouldn’t you know the kids kept playing with the glitter. There was one girl who was wheeled into the playroom by her mom. She couldn’t have been more than 11 and she was a double amputee with both legs gone. She sat through the readings looking small in her wheelchair and gown. She never looked up, that is, until the Josh look-a-like began to sing. She first began to look at him in awe (I have to admit, his voice was amazing) and then she began to cry silent tears.

The whole ceremony culminated with a gazing ball being placed on top of a tree in our courtyard. The pine has bright colored ribbons with laminated cards tied to various branches. Each card has a child’s handwritten wish upon it. Things like: “I wish my headaches would stop.” “I wish my Mom could have a happy marriage.” “I wish I had a house with a back yard.” But the most common one on there is, “I wish I could get cured and go home.”

In high school I had a friend who hated signing yearbooks, but would do so in a very passive aggressive manner by wishing you well on obscure holidays. My Sophomore yearbook I was wished a happy Arbor Day (today) and my Junior year I was wisheda happy Flag Day. Incidentally I will always remember it is June 14th. I used to think these various holidays were pointless, strange days established by the government for some odd reason. Arbor Day never really meant anything to me. Today it took a different meaning when I watched the pomp and circumstance actually reach the heart of a child.

Professional Parties

2005-04-25T16:19:00.000-07:00

It’s amazing to me how people always identify themselves as human doers vs. human beings. Take for example last Friday night. I flew out to visit my boyfriend and on the agenda was a party with the group of residents in his profession. One would think there are other things to talk about than work, but I kid you not, those conversations never happened. I was actually quite nervous about meeting his colleagues and attendings, for some unknown reason.

The first thing that struck me is that people were happy to see I really existed. Nothing like a long distance relationship to really get people guessing if someone actually has a girlfriend or is just super creative with photo shop for those pictures on the mantle.

People usually begin conversations with the typical: so-what-do-you-do question. However, how do you interject yourself into a conversation when everyone does the same thing (with the exception of you)?

"So how is it that I didn't even get asked what was wrong with my own patient when they were coding last night?" One intern mused to her colleague. "I mean, I KNOW that this patient has congenital cardiac blah blah blah and yet, they insist on seeing the chart. I ended up just sitting behind the oxygen tank not even feeling a pulse when the whole thing was happening. Its like I got pushed out of the way." (Me thinking, gee, assertive skills is obviously not her strong suit, but not about to tell her that.)

"Oh I know what you mean, I actually was running a code on a patient when some stupid nurse decided to try barking orders. I actually had to identify myself as someone who knew more than she did." (Me thinking, gee, you should have chosen surgery as a specialty...)

Most of the individuals would begin talking to my boyfriend and then eventually asked how long I was going to be in town. It shocked me that they were surprised when I said, 48 hours. Hello? They all know how long a "golden weekend" is. Only once during the whole evening did one person ask what I did. When I began to tell him my title he actually dazed off in the middle of it and mumbled something about finding chips before he wandered off. I'm not kidding here. Yup, doctors and their social skills at their finest.

I really tried to seek out the spouses and significant others of the doctors hoping to find some common ground. However that ended up being more of a daytime TV interview session.

Me: "So are you from here?"

Spouse: "Yup." or "No I was in forestry in California but I couldn't stand being away from so-and-so. I left home and moved across the country and have been in retail ever since."

Me: "How did you guys meet?"

Spouse: Various stories of college, quick marriages/house buying/relocation before residency.

There was a trend here: no one really asked me questions and typically every spouse gave up something HUGE to be with their doctor significant other. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the war stories of who stayed up the longest on call, how many codes, how many admits continued with the residents oblivious to outside interests we call "life." No one remarked on hobbies, activities, interests, etc.. (Although we did have a couple of exciting moments when the host played the accordion while the attending accompanied him on the piano.) One would say the conversation was due to the one-dimensional aspect of being a medical resident, but even the spouses couldn't elaborate

It was like two separate parties going on. The doctors were describing how hard it is being a resident and the spouses were talking about their version of the journey in supporting a doctor. I truly was the only one in the room with a professional career without being a doctor.

How do we define ourselves and why is it mostly centered around our profession? We certainly must have learned this somewhere along the way. Somewhere between grade school and adulthood, we stopped talking about what really interests us and began to talk about the other stuff that fills up our lives. I think its because its emotionally safe to give ourselves labels like "accountant," "teacher," "lawyer," and "doctor" vs. "skier," "poet," "musician." Somehow those latter things just don't hold the weight of being productive. We measure ourselves by what we do; what we accomplish; And I have to admit that even I passed judgment on those who identified their focus as the person they loved, especially when perhaps I assumed, it wasn't themselves.

Travel Bug

2005-04-04T13:00:00.000-07:00

I do not have good luck when it comes to traveling and boyfriends. Sure, it seems like a good idea to plan a romantic get-a-way, but when it comes down to it I panic. The only reason why I bring this up is because I just bought over a thousand dollars worth of plane tickets to go to Honolulu in June with my boyfriend.

The bad traveling vibe began when I was 18 and dating a guy from Arizona. We went to Disneyland with a group of fraternity people. The crux was meeting his mother and sisters who were competing in a cheerleading contest. I would say the highlight of the trip was watching my friend trip out on acid to the sidewalk by Space Mountain. The worst part was having his mother not like me and then having to spend an additional three days with her in Phoenix.

I abstained from traveling with lovers until I went to Tulane with another guy when I was 21. Tulane was his dream school. I got in + he didn't = we broke up. Ok, moving on.

I did travel quite a bit when I was dating guys from back east, although usually those trips involved meeting parents and it wasn't a joint venture so it doesn't count. This entry is to solely focus in on traveling WITH the person not going to see him.

Ok, well there was this one time when I was dating interracially and it was my turn to join his family for Thanksgiving. He had just gone through surgery so LorTab was his best friend. We drove to his grandparents in North Carolina and it was a cultural exchange to say the least. We were in very small quarters, I was definitely the only Caucasian around, and they were equally fascinated with my hair dryer as I was with the fact that they shot Sammy the Squirrel, stewed him up, and served him for breakfast. We broke up that following January.

In 2003 my current boyfriend asked me to join him for a wedding out in Pennsylvania. It was an old friend from high school marrying a girl with my same name. I apparently went to school with the guy, but I didn't recognize him at all. Here is where the trouble began. What he neglected to tell me was that his ex-girl friend was going to be there as well. I don't know if he just thought the ostrich maneuver (stick your head in the sand) was a good one or what. We had the most outrageous fight complete with the ex wishing me "good luck" (they had dated for 8 years), me smashing a scotch glass, and both of us standing out in the rain reconciling.

We decided to try traveling again! Another wedding! Chicago that August for a medical school friend. What he again neglected to tell me was that it was an interracial marriage. Ok, so that pushed some buttons for me. Her Irish family was not so accepting of the gospel singing way-to-do of the wedding, but as I hear it, they are still quite happy.

Sure, third time is the charm... In January 2004, we again decided to go to Tulane for an interview for his residency. (Its like deja-vu all over again.) An awful fight precluded me getting on the plane (although I can't for the life of me remember what I was upset about now). Neither of us went.

I have bad luck with New Orleans and men. Even my girlfriends from there tell me to quit creating awful memories with such a great city.

Then there was a time when I almost went to Jamaica with an ex. It was canceled because I was back together with my current boyfriend.

And then we went to one last wedding last August. It was in Minneapolis and we went all out. Great food, incredible hotel, and a very unique union of sorts. Another interracial, intercultural, etc, extravaganza. Imagine a born-again Ethiopian marrying a Russian Orthodox. As I hear it, they too are very happy. Come to think of it, the only hard part of that whole trip was I wasn't feeling very well and he was exhausted from being post-call.

So, this brings me to now. In June he has 2 weeks off. My aunt has offered us a place to stay in Honolulu near Diamond Head. Hello? We would be crazy not to take it. The search was on for airfare and today I found it. I paged him and we talked for a brief moment before I hit "confirm."

At this point in time all I can do is hope for the best, save for spending money, get going on my work-outs, and hope that good intentions produce incredible results.

Weed and Feed: The Saga of a New Gardener

2005-03-20T07:54:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I spent most of the day running errands with my Mom. We did the typical things like go to lunch, the bank, the grocery, and shop around. It was a pretty typical Saturday. The one thing that differed was we also went to our local plant and garden shops. Ever since I bought this house I've been pretty focused on my yard and garden. In the middle of January I couldn't wait to buy hanging baskets in anticipation for May. However, life is not all a bunch of roses especially if you have weeds.

I have spent countless hours feeling pretty stupid searching internet sites trying to identify my own species o' weeds (prolific little suckers). I finally broke down and pulled one of the thousands out of my flower beds and took it to the "Master Gardener" yesterday. There were about 4 other women with samples of grass, roots, bulbs, and weeds in various ziploc containers waiting to see Dave as well. He is in his 60's and clearly Gregor Mendel is one of his heros. He put my flowering weed under the magnifying lamp and began to consult his countless books.

"It has purple blossoms." I said trying to be helpful.

Dave looked up at me and peered through his bifocals, "I know that."

Ooh kay. Sooorrry!

I began to think of other weeds I've battled last summer, "I also have something that looks like a lily pad."

"Yes, you don't want that either."

No kidding.

He went through the genus and species of each picture until he triumpantly opened the book and said, "Meet the weed." There it was. It looked harmless in the book, but he hadn't seen my yard. Poor daffodils were competing for the sun with this weed.

He then began to ask me how close the weeds were to my precious spring bulbs. I didn't know. I just explained that the weed was everywhere. He then used my Mom as a prop.

"You Mother is the bulb. Where is the weed in relation to your Mother?" He began to move the now flacid weed in various proximities to my 5' Portugese decent maternal figure.

"Uh, its just everywhere."

Dave sighed and then began to tell me what I need to do. "Go get a 20 oz coke bottle. Enjoy." He paused for the dramatic effect. "Then cut the bottom of it off, put the bottle over the weed and use this." He pulled some random poison off the shelf. "However,you will not be able to do this today. You need 5 days of sun to do this. We are expecting precipitation tonight."

In Utah in March that could mean anything from rain to inches of snow.

He then told me I needed to get a marker and put skull and crossbones on the bottle. No kidding.

Mom and I left feeling quite patronized. We did go to another local favorite garden shop to replace a plant she recently killed by accident. The poor thing was just hanging out of the garbage can when I got to her house that morning. It was not a very dignified death. Part of me wanted to go rescue it and nurse it back to health. It was at that realization that I knew my maternal instinct was in overdrive.

Mom could kill things, I can't keep their growth under control. Ah, the irony.

We wandered around the plants until we were overcome with a sweet fragrance. It stopped us dead in our tracks. A lemon tree. It was a good height, it smelled good, it was unlike anything we've had before, and it didn't need cross-pollenization. How cool would it be to be making chicken piccata and say, "Gee, I need a lemon. I'll just go to the entry hall."

We carefully loaded it into the Jetta and drove it home with the promise that if it looks like it isn't doing so well, Mom will find a new home with someone who can't kill it. AKA me.

Pineapples

2005-03-12T10:56:00.000-08:00

I've been on family overdose. Not my family. My boyfriend's.

I'm happy to say that he is in town for a rare week break. It goes without saying that when he comes home, he attempts to maximize time spent with everyone. As a result, a setting for dinner is just automatically assumed for me every night. I love these individuals. They are stellar people. I'm just needing a breather.

There are subtle signs that I'm needing a break. I begin to develop a taste for chard as opposed to pinot noir. I've begun to pick up mannerisms of the matriarch and sayings of the patriarch. I know the organization of the kitchen so when it is my turn to cook I don't struggle wondering where the collander is. These are all tell tale signs that I need to retreat.

In the days of plantations in the South a sign of hospitality was the pineapple. I'm not certain why I know this or how in the hell it still sticks in my head, but it does. When guests would arrive, a pineapple would be placed on the table or their bed. However, when a guest had out-worn their welcome, another pineapple would silently appear back on the bed. Perhaps this is why you see pineapples carved into bedposts now at Ethan Allen and pineapple motifs on kitchen towels. The only reason why I mention this is because the family has a planter in the shape of a pineapple on their front porch (now with blue pansies in it). I doubt they really know the symbolism, but it made me giggle when I passed it.

Last year I was snowed in at their house for literally 10 days. I will not spend the night again. That was a time of desperation and unbelievable hospitality. However, although it met my boyfriend's needs of having everyone in the same place at the same time, it will never happen again. He just doesn't get it (he attempts to coax me every night into staying.) I am almost 30 with my own home. Why he doesn't spend more nights with me when he's in town is beyond me...especially on the weekends.

Its not like we have some strange moral code. Hell, where do you think I sleep when I'm visiting him? There is no denial going on here.

I can go on and on about what psychologcial analysis I have about this, but I'm certain it goes without saying.

At any rate, I have about oh, 72 hours (but who's counting) o'family time left. When he leaves, I'll be depressed...as I sit alone in my own home on my own couch with my feet up on my own table...well, you get the picture.

Morphing into Management

2005-03-01T09:58:00.000-08:00

These days I spend most of my time prepping for "difficult conversations." I actually rehearse, write down bullet points, and try to anticipate the worst. My life was not filled with such measures before I hit management.

I could breeze through telling parents their child died and some difficult decsions were needing to be made. I could reality test families of what their grasp was of a new terrible diagnosis. For some reason, these conversations were almost second nature.

Now I deal with conversations surrounding accountability, realtiy testing their perceptions, and ultimately attempting to inspire people to do their best. These were topics I did not learn in graduate school. In fact, there really isn't any sort of formal training on these issues. I have spoken with those who have their MBA's and even they struggle.

My boyfriend and I discussed our daily agendas last night. He commented that all I do is have "difficult conversations." True. Its funny that I never used to call them "difficult" until I started picking up the jargon from my boss/mentors in leadership. I think one of my biggest road blocks is that I have way too much empathy. Not only can I walk in that person's shoes, I can tell you the make, size, and style of the footwear. Yes sir, I really put my heart into it. By doing this, I tend to soften the message and impact. This just ultimately gives me cause to beat myself up after for not being as firm as I needed to be.

I've learned in my tenure that leadership is not defined by people liking you. Its about influence. And with influence there comes trust and respect. I find its a lot easier to foster people liking you more than the two concepts of trust and respect. Think about it, have you ever seen a grade-school age kiddo trying to use "trust" and "respect" on the playground? Hell, no. We are taught how to make friends, aka getting people to like you.

These can be foreign concepts to install in people. However, it is my duty as a leader, to figure it out and unfortunately have a lot of difficult conversations.

Home is Where the Heart Is

2005-02-25T21:52:00.000-08:00

It goes without saying that I am a "touchy-feely" kind of person. I function mostly on gut reactions and use logic only as back up. I never took a deductive or inductive reasoning class in college as I knew I would fail the sucker. My decisions make sense to me (well, of course they do, I make them). However, I can see how this can make other people in my life crazy.

Recently I went to San Francisco with my boss for a Family Centered Care Conference. Truly, it is a "well, duh" concept that most people don't get. I spent four days listening to how people set up parent advisory committees (although never have them on quality review boards), try to coach staff to actually ask the parents what they want to have happen (eventhough they do not share this info with the docs who are making the care plan), and try to create a patient flow workspace (that is until the budget gets in the way.) It was a frustrating 4 days. I did have good food, see the ocean, and climbed a lot of hills which I suppose is what I picture San Francisco to embody anyway.

About 6 years ago I thought I wanted to live in San Francisco. I was actually applying for jobs in a city I had never visited. It sounded like a great place to go. It was diverse, social issue focused, liberal, and had a lot of things to do. Somehow I got stuck back home, but this is a different story. It is funny, but when I actually got to the city for my first time in 2001, I wasn't so impressed. It was a great city, but it just didn't feel like my city. It was too big. There was too much traffic. It was too cloudy and grey. I felt isolated in a crowd.

I felt the same way about Washington, D.C.. I actually have dated two guys from that area and each time it got serious, I was approached about moving there. I panicked. I spent some time there in 1995 where I again faced the same grey, rude, big city, isolation. No way, no how. I could rationally go there and think, "Gee, if I loved the guy enough, our relationship would help me survive and thrive in the city." Uh, wrong, try again! My gut just couldn't agree. There are other cities I know I wouldn't be happy in and they are as follows: L.A., Las Vegas, New York, Houston, anywhere in Wyoming, anywhere in Idaho, Phoenix, Colorado Springs, Sacramento, Reno, Detroit. I apologize to those who live there and are happy in advance of my judgement.

There are other cities I love. I've spent little time there, but I know that I would be happy. Austin, Texas. I spent about 24 hours there and was ready to move. I also know I would be extremely happy in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The people are friendly, there are neighborhoods with their own character, a lot of culture, diversity, and its socially pro-active. I didn't really mind the winter either.

When I was ready to set up some roots I ended up in Salt Lake. My decision to buy a home literally was a done deal in about two weeks. What can I say? My heart spoke to me.

Other cities I would consider moving: New Orleans, Atlanta, Dallas, San Diego, Boulder, Portland, Indianapolis (only due to loved ones there), Chicago, ... and others I cannot remember at this time.

I wish there was a scientific way of examining cities. There isn't. I just go on what feels right. I would consider moving to Wisconsin over Ohio anyday. I couldn't tell you why, it just feels right.

They say that home is where the heart is. They also say that some of your closest family members are not blood related. I believe in both statements; I'm just waiting until everything just "feels right."

Be Mine

2005-02-11T19:21:00.000-08:00

I hate Valentine's Day. Really, I have yet to find someone who LOVES it. When I was younger, it was without fail that the night before I would complete my shoebox valentines depot for class and then wake up with the stomach flu. My brother would then lug this Buster Brown's box now covered in red construction paper and pink hearts to carpool then off to my class. This lonely box would gather store bought valentines with either Superman or Garfield on them and if I were lucky, a few candy hearts in the bottom of the envelope. I remember looking for THE valentine. You know, the one from the crush in school. The guy who wouldn't talk to you. I would read into his candy hearts. Did he really think I was "neat?" Did he really think I was a "Q-T?" Fact of the matter is, he was probably more interested in Kim or Merilee. Ok, truly, let's be honest. He probably loved the Broncos more than some stupid girl.

As I've gotten older I equate New Years with Valentines Day. Its the same stupid relationship pressure only a few weeks later. The same questions exist. Who do you kiss? Who will choose you? And the most important question: will you want who chooses you?

The only thing I can count on is my Dad on Feb 14th. My family is not very big on holidays. However, every Valentines Day I can always count on a small heart shaped box of chocolates from the grocery store from my Dad. I find it really sweet.

One year I actually braced myself for a blind date. It was with a resident at the hospital. We went to a play and then to sushi. He was very nice but the pressure of that stupid holiday ruined things. I have to give it to him. He was even quite suave with chocolates from a Utah institution, Cummings Chocolates, and flowers from Bloomingsales. Nice touch!

There was another year in my sorority days when four of us rented a room for the sole purpose of having a place to hang out and drink. We went to dinner and then back for some cocktails and swimming. I think that night, if memory serves, the guy told me he loved me for the first time (I was thrilled with this news at the time). He was also the stupid guy who thinks that all a woman wants is a Victoria's Secret box.

Good point to stop and give advice. Men: Do NOT give your lady a gift from V.S. on a holiday to celebrate her. Really, it is a gift to YOU. That's like us giving you a gift of us having a manicure/pedicure. Please, do you think we are that stupid?

My very best Valentines day was two years ago. I was stranded in Baltimore with the storm of the century. It began with breakfast in bed at the hotel I was staying at for a conference. I then got a package from my boyfriend. Very romantic card, tea, a cd and candy. I wasn't expecting anything as we had only been dating a short time so I was giddy beyond belief. I couldn't believe he tracked me down! The best part of the holiday was dinner. Imagine four professional ladies at dinner on the waterfront surrounded by couples. We were all sans beaus as we were at a conference. We chatted over our heart-shaped ravioli and listed our top 3 times in our lives. We each got a rose at the end of the night. It was the best unplanned Valentines I've ever had.

I'm not certain what this year will hold, but it won't be anything spectacular. My boyfriend is more than likely on call that night...2,000 miles away, might I add. Nope, I'm not having anything more planned than me, a good book, and a grocery bought box of chocolates.

The Grief of Grief

2005-02-01T21:41:00.000-08:00

My boyfriend thinks I'm a bit emotionally blocked. Numb, if you will. You see, I haven't had a really good cry since my grandmother died. At work, people are walking around on eggshells with the empathic scrunched up face and a, "How ya doing?" I make light of the situation and their faces get even more contorted with concern. The thing of it is, I'm really not sure where my emotions are right now.

As a trained therapist I know the 7 stages of grief a la Kubler-Ross; you just never think they apply to you. Yesterday I was just utterly confused. I got muddled on simple tasks, was highly unproductive with my day, and couldn't figure out what to do with myself. Today I've lacked body perception. For instance, I'm running into things. (Re-reading this I know now I'm in shock.)

I can't even identify what stage my family is emotionally. Yesterday everyone went about their business as usual. Dogs were walked, taxes were done, jobs were performed, meals were cooked, and even medical appointments were made. Not a single tissue was used. No one immediately clustered together for joint solace and family support. Today this trend continued until the anger stage struck.

It is displaced anger, but anger none-the-less. Most of it was directed towards me. Typically anger is before the depression and somewhere after denial. I can't remember where barganing fits in, but that certainly hasn't hit.

Things I also remember from my professional life: crisis is not the time to reinvent the wheel. You do what you know to make yourself feel better. Some exercise, some withdraw, some write (guess who), some drink, some overeat, some smoke, well you get the point.

My father has always been one to bond through fighting. A good rousing argument is just what he needs to get engaged on an emotional level. I can't say I was surprised when he called tonight ready to pick a fight over a topic he didn't fully understand. He was just after the exchange. The embarressing thing is that I took the bait. I became defensive and ultimately hung up on him when I realized I didn't have the energy. I instead wrote an email to my parents later (which again is my usual coping mechanism.)

I'm braced for the full force to hit, but will it happen? (If it doesn't I'm certain my anger phase will kick into high gear.) The thing about grief is that it is a rapid cycle packed with punches you can't dodge...not even your parents rath. Everyone experiences it differently and there really isn't one right way to do things. The best thing you can do is to allow grace for everyone around you, not to take things personally, and own your own projections. Its good advice to give, and good advice to take.

Coping: Java with Prada

2005-01-31T07:48:00.000-08:00

Quick update: G'ma is still hanging in there. The Priest came by Saturday night and truly it was a magical experience. Although she apparently woke up Sunday morning and was angry because it didn't work. Another funny thing happened when my aunts decided that my Grandfather needed to say goodbye. You have to understand that my family is not very emotional. I have never heard my grandparents tell each other they love one another. So when G'ma said those three words, "I love you," my Grandfather responded with a, "Well, good luck."

That still makes me laugh. Really, you need to have a sense of humor to make it through this.

Another coping mechanism I'm employing is shopping. I've discovered EBay. Currently I'm leading on a cranberry slipcover for my couch. (I think I'll lose, but it would be really nice to win.) EBay is pretty amazing (and its a Utah company). You have the thrill of competition and you really have to decide how much you want an item.

On Saturday I went shopping with one of my best friends. The idea was to find designer clothes in second-hand stores. We thought it would be ideal to combine it with coffee thus the outing was immediately dubbed: Java with Prada. We found nothing in the stores and wound up in Anthropologie. I love this store. I found a gorgeous pair of slacks and a sweater on sale. However, buyers remorse caught up and I put it back. (If my financial advisor is reading this I'm certain he is doing a small round of applause.)

My Mom just called. G'ma died about 4 minutes ago.

Catholic Etiquette???

2005-01-28T22:56:00.000-08:00

I am a religious poser. A wannabe, if you will.

Tonight I arranged to have a Priest perform the Holy sacrament of Anointing of the Sick for my Paternal Grandmother. This is the new term Catholics call it. I was used to Last Rites, but that is passe. I've been online ever since trying to learn the details of this last sacrament.

To give you a bit of background: I was yanked out of Catholic school when I was 10. The itchy plaid jumpers and knee socks were replaced by pencil jeans and keds. The nuns were replaced by polygamous teachers. I kid you not, but Mr. Swapp still remains one of the best teachers I ever had...only in Utah. But I never went back to church. No more Sunday school, no more incense, no more studying the Bible for me. Instead, my family spent our day of worship on the golf course. I did make it through baptism, first Holy communion, and confession. The last time I made it to confession it went something like this:

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been 14 years since my last confession. My first sin is that I don't remember the Act of Contrition...."

It just got worse from there. The Priest was so taken aback he just told me I was brave enough to show up in the booth and that I was forgiven, no prayers needed. The best part about that whole thing was I actually didn't feel guilty taking communion that mass. However, I haven't been back since.

My Grandmother has bladder cancer. She was a champ through the chemo to help reduce the size of the tumor, the numerous stint revisions, and the pain. Two days ago I went to my Grandparents house for dinner. People from hospice were packing her bags getting her ready to go to a nursing home. She was there a little over 24 hours when she began to say her goodbyes. She told my Mom what a wonderful daughter-in-law she had been and its been reported she had a very similar touching talk with my aunts. My Grandfather even went there to say his goodbye. As of tonight she has been moved to my aunt's home because she didn't want to die in a care facility. My aunt is doing the vigil watch for the last days or hours as Grandma has been placed with a morphine pump.

Grandma was the best Catholic of us all and requested a Priest. I was the one with a direct connection through the hospital. Tonight I called one of my dearest friends, our hospital chaplain, and before I knew it I was giving the Priest directions to my aunt's house. Somewhere about 7:00 tomorrow night this mystical act of faith will be performed on my Grandmother. It was her last request.

I feel really good that I was able to help in someway. My only hope is that I didn't step on anyones toes. If you've ever had a crisis in your extended family, you know what I'm talking about. All the family dynamics rear their ugly heads and all of a sudden your 52 year old father is acting like he's 8 and the rest assume their positions of hero, scapegoat, wall flower, dictator, etc (add your adjective here). The women are doing amazing work and unfortunately, the men are allowing this to happen without them. What the guys don't realize is the valuable gift they are giving up.

I was part of my Pop's last hours on this earth. I helped push his morphine button, made sure he was comfortable, told him stories, and reconciled on so many levels. The most important and intimate minutes of anyones life is their birth and their death. If you can be present for either of those, consider yourself blessed. It may sound macabre, but coming from a girl who has watched hundreds die, I'm speaking from experience. It is a gift, simple as that.

For Sale: False Icons of Happiness

2005-01-23T14:12:00.000-08:00

There is nothing more frustrating than finances. I have always had my self-worth wrapped up in my bank account balance. No wonder people always say they want to win the lottery. But here's the reality: the bigger the account, the bigger the expenses become, and you are right back where you start.

I watched my Father do the whole yuppie thing. He built a house on a mountain with a commissioned architect, drove the luxury cars, bought a powerful recreational boat, did the country club membership, and went to several social events. I've never seen a man so unhappy to be that successful. He was on a treadmill that never slowed down, not because he was trying to obtain more, but because he was afraid he would lose it all.

Recently I bought my staff the book, What Happy People Know. If you haven't read it, I suggest it highly. The majority of my staff read it as though it were a medical journal article and tore it to bits due to its simplicity. What I thought is the funniest part is that they completely missed the point.

Dr. Dan Baker sites 5 things that people chase because they think it will bring happiness.

1. A life of leisure. Perhaps. But what is the meaning of the existence? One of the best gifts is to help someone feel a sense of purpose. It can be done just by allowing others to help you. They feel they made a difference. Leisure doesn't exactly provide this purpose.

2. Status. How many famous people do you know who just can't wait to get in front of the cameras to air their personal lives? Status generally equals fame. With fame comes a loss of privacy control. Besides fame is like looks: there will always be someone higher or prettier than you are and someone who is less so.

3. Possessions. Oh yeah, let me tell you how many people on their deathbeds cry out to see their BMW or silver tea set. None. They recall their relationships.

4. Financial security. Ok, I'll admit it. I thought this one was a shoo in for me. If you think about it, security is a myth. There is not one of us who can 100% guarantee safety. It doesn't exist.

5. Worldly power. Remember the saying, "Its lonely at the top"? Power just equals more obligations. People who run their own lives don't need to run others'.

Other falsehoods that people think are magic cures for unhappiness: trying to resolve the past, compensating for weaknesses, and trying to force happiness. Instead, remember the wisdom of your past mistakes and move forward, focus and develop your strengths, and realize that in life's natural balance one must feel the full range of emotions. This is a great philosophy to run a buisness with incredible human capital. I'm telling you, this is a fabulous book.

So in the end, although I'll be eating mac and cheese for the next two weeks, I need to remember the positives (vs. my negative cash flow). It will be a challenge and an opportunity to live life frugally. (See, its all in how you reframe things.) The reality is this: in two weeks some magic figures will appear in my checking account only to match the bills in my mailbox. Emotions, like money, just recycle.

Secret Gardens

2005-01-16T10:22:00.000-08:00

Several of you have called/emailed me about the site. Its been nice to see how many of you really enjoy the writing. One of the biggest questions that follows is, "But what do your parents think?"

Yes, yes, I've always been a bit too honest for my own good. In my days of teenage emotion and poor young twenties judgement, my best sounding board was my Mom. We would be out to lunch and her face would twist to horror and shock as I relegated tales of boys, sorority, and the French Quarter. It took her a few years to realize that I didn't really have an edit button to delineate the roles of parent/friend. She smartened up though and finally would stop me at the beginning of the story with a simple question: Do I really need to know this?

My life, for the most part, has been an open book with those I care about. One main reason: I can not lie well. I fidget, I pause, my eyes wander up and over the person I'm talking with, and generally I can't keep my own story straight. In short, I would be a terrible CIA operative.

As I've matured I've learned that there are secrets that you must keep to yourself. Every person should have his/her own secret garden. The fact of the matter is some secret telling can just be for your own conscious vs. the best interest of the other person. However, there can also be a freedom and wisdom in sharing information that you hold close to your heart. Your experience just may free another. This can be a tricky tightrope to walk.

I wrote in my "about me" segment that I have had a journal since I was 6. I also had two people I trusted violate that secret space. One ex actually waited for me to go to work, open my moving boxes, read the journals, and retape the package. (He confronted me on the content when I got home which just landed him a solid KO from my reflexes.) Turns out he wasn't even interested in the present recordings, but was after the secrets locked three years prior. After this kind of violation one might ask why I continue to keep these logs. There is freedom and release in watching the ink soak into the pages with your confessions and thought processes.

Without fail, I have had every boyfriend ask to read them. I have denied every single one of them. I'm not really clear why I keep them if no one will read them besides myself. It is a nice way to observe patterns for me and perhaps my children will be left a key to a safe deposit box in my will opening my secret garden to them. I'd like to think that I would let my future husband (???) read them decades from now, but I'm not certain if information might hurt him. I will never deliberately hurt someone I love.

Back to the issue of my parents. I love them very much. What I wrote is nothing they don't already know. I gave my Mom the link with an emotional disclaimer. We talked about it after. Although the truth stings, it also moved our relationship forward and what we had was a very healing experience. My Father claims he cannot surf the web. He would find this site to be boring and again, its information he already knows. As a whole, my family is the kind that tells the truth no matter how ugly it is. (Those of you who have been fortunate enough to have sat at our dinner table knows this first hand.)

My family can be a breath of fresh air in the fact that we don't sugar coat things, we allow emotion, and no excuses are made. I have more than once stomped off from dinner, we have called each other names, and it is perfectly acceptable to burst into tears. My Maternal Grandmother is like this as well. She doesn't bat an eye when we play the fortune cookie game "in bed" and will talk about other unsavory topics while swirling her martini. (I love this about her.) There is no such thing as a functional family. We all have our brand of disfunction. It is familiar. (Note: familiar stems from the same root as family, go figure.)

Families can be about an image or they can be a place where you feel safe to be yourself (both the good and bad parts). They can drive you crazy, give you great material for blogs/journals, and ground you.

Yawn...counting sheep?

2005-01-14T22:18:00.000-08:00

My boyfriend has an impeccable ability to go into dream sequence while I am talking to him on the phone at night. At one point in time he asked me how I did a procedure on the left ankle when I was just finished asking him a question about his family. It is at that point in time when I know whether I like it or not, the conversation has ended. I have had hour-long talks with one my girlfriends while she has been completely unconscious. The only way she knows she was asleep is because she will glance at the caller ID in the morning and call back wondering if we had spoken. I do not have these problems, unfortunately. Instead, sleep eludes me.

I have always had a problem with insomnia. It comes and goes and usually is directly related to my inability to turn off my brain. Thoughts circle and I usually do my best problem solving as I try to fall asleep. Typically it takes me about 30 minutes to an hour to fully fall asleep. I wish I were kidding. It is a conscious process for me to go to the land of nod.

I have rituals to help me wind down. I take baths, I read, I drink milk. When I was little I abandoned counting sheep and instead began to try and recount every birthday party in chronological order (the waterslide, the tea party, the sleepover, etc.) What is ironic is that I find children's birthday parties to be depressing I (or downright terrifying if they had clowns involved) including my own. At times in my adulthood, I still find myself going down this mental ritual. I am also pretty good at imagining I'm on a roller coaster (I love thrill rides) and try to get that body sensation in the dark. That also gets me to sleep. I found that music does little to help me relax (I read too much into the lyrics' poetry) and I can't keep my mind from wandering during meditation tapes.

I am not above using the pharmacy for aid as well. I have done a number of sleeping agents (always supervised by a MD) although I'm always afraid of getting dependent. So I try switching things up. Antihistamines, NyQuil, etc.. Again though, the whole fear of dependence gets me.

I've had a few suggest a nightcap. That doesn't work as I wake up usually about 3 AM wide awake. I'm finding the older I get the more alcohol negativelyimpactsmy circadian cycles. That sucks. No longer am I the 22 year old party girl body surfing the crowd while drunk and then miraculously home to pass out. Those days are gone.

I think the worst part about sleep issues is the whole waking up in the early hours of the morning with your body having the idea that it is normal hours. I did this last night. I had some dream about work that got me all worked up for a very difficult meeting I have next week. I literally woke up sitting in bed yelling some brilliant line in the sand to my nemesis. (This one sided strategic conversation is no longer in my recall ability now.) After that sleep was out of the question for another 1.5 hours as I tried to qualm my anxieties and talked my irrational beliefs down that now was not the time to be conquering the world in my mind.

Work definitely stresses me out, but you know when I was on medical leave I just found family issues to be the source of anti-sleep anxiety. This just leads me to believe that there is a genetic component. My mom is notorious for her early waking habits. It is not uncommon for her to get up at 4 AM and finish out client's bank reconciliations until 7 when she will finally make a cup of tea. I always told her this was just plain sick, but now I'm unwillingly following down her same path.

Here is my plea before I sign off for the night: if any of you have any brilliant ideas or old home remedies your grandmother taught you, please let me know.

In the Eye of the Beholder

2005-01-10T20:38:00.000-08:00

Last night as I was watching one of the many award shows (tis the season), I was also perusing a magazine article. A woman was describing how to achieve true beauty. Her words of wisdom: try to look your best as infrequently as possible. I found this to be ironic as I watched several movie stars with their hair just messy enough to look sexy and their gowns as sheer as lingerie. But it did get me thinking.

This woman, a contributor to Real Simple, stated, “However you look, people get used to it. If you accustom them to a very high standard – your hair and makeup are always perfect, your clothing is expensive and fetching – you are just setting them up for disappointment if you make a mistake or, God forbid, get lazy.” She likens the occasion of when you do dress up as a chance to exercise your right in choosing the time to blossom.

I asked a good friend of mine what he thought about this. He thought it was a risky piece of advice, especially to those who are not exceptionally pretty but overall he agreed with the statement. I have to say, this shocked me coming from a guy who values beauty very much.

In my invalid period I watched a fair amount of Oprah. One of the more interesting shows was about a typical 30-year-old female in various parts of the world. I had no idea that Mexican women think working out in the gym is crazy and that men should adore us eating enchiladas because it accentuates our curves. This was of course coming from one of their top soap opera stars. By the way, the French women also agreed with this statement. I also had no idea that a typical Cuban woman has had 4 abortions by the time she was 30 and divorced at least once. Oh, and ladies, you think dating in the US is bad, go to London. There, women outnumber men 3:1!!! I was beginning to feel quite attractive in my scrubs and glasses living in America (and at the time mostly surviving off of cinnamon rolls). Hey, it was au natural with minimal effort!

It never fails: you always have a great hair day the morning you have an appointment with your stylist. Or you feel sloppy the day of a really important meeting. Beauty, or more importantly, the feeling of being beautiful can strike indiscriminately.

Ever since I was a little girl, I adored baths. What I really relished were baths in my parent’s jetted tub. I would secretly pull my hair up into this yellow shower cap (pretending it was a short glamorous bob) and sample my mother’s dark lipstick. I would sit amid the bubbles and pretend I was some foreign student with an exotic accent telling some man to just, “leeve mee alozne.” All dolled up and nowhere to go. ( I can’t believe I’m confessing this!)

Its funny, the one time I did actually get “dolled up” post-op was when I was visiting my boyfriend. Hair done, makeup on, I never felt ready. The makeup looked forced, too shimmery perhaps, and my hair began to resemble a TV anchor no matter what I did to it. Even the Ann Taylor clothes looked wrong. And then I realized how uncomfortable I felt in a situation forcing beauty. I had a deadline to look pretty! Damn it, we had to be there with bells on to shmooze the MD world by 6:30!! I wasn’t able to “choose” my time of blossoming. We never did go to the Christmas Ball. We ended up dancing in our pj’s by the kitchen sink while reheating leftovers. There, in that moment with the makeup washed off and hair pulled back, I felt beautiful.

**Bonus!! Other moments when women are effortlessly beautiful.**

Women who go naturally gray or at least blonde. Ladies, its God’s way of giving you a makeover! (Wrinkles are too harsh for dark hair.) My Mom is very pretty with her silver locks.
Post-coital hair. (enough said)
Women who cry with makeup on. It’s your emotion, not your perfection that makes you pretty.
No makeup at the gym. (Really, who wears diva lipstick to the spinning class?)
Confidence (no MAC artist can give you this look)
Kissing…you always feel beautiful kissing.
(Add your own here…or add your comments at the end of what you think makes someone beautiful.) J

Mission Impossible: This Message Will Self-Destruct

2005-01-10T12:00:00.000-08:00

Never underestimate the power of a good psychiatrist.

Several of you have heard stories about this guy. I get more work done in a 15 minute session than I did with my therapist. Note: past tense, I fired the guy after our sessions became more entertainment value for him and boundaries crossed. This psychiatrist has more than a big ego and Rx pad; this guy has insight.

To be a therapist's therapist would be difficult. You have to be able to cut past all of the intelletual defenses and call them on the carpet. I'm very good at self-diagnosing a la DSM IV, justfying irrational beliefs, and playing each session like a chess game. Basically I'm scared and its easier to hide. I can't do this with Dr. C.

I haven't seen this guy since October, but the first thing on my mind was my parents. How do I draw boundaries? Ever since I got ill, I had to become more dependent on them. Couldn't drive, various appointments, foggy on narcotics, etc.. And thus the cycle began, they too became more dependent on me. One day my mother decided to "unburden" herself on me. (This was done over a drop-in with Starbucks the day before they were ruling out ulcers...I knew the visit was more for her than me right off the bat.)

The issue: finances. She was trapped in the relationship where my father refused to work and they are going broke on her self-employment. My father left his job "early retirement" at the age of 48. He doesn't have a college degree and just has life experience to get him to the VP level. Naturally he is intimidated by going back out in the workforce. I really don't know if I should be more angry with the man or pity him. They were a yuppie role model of the 80's and now they are facing downsizing again and selling the country club membership. What really got to me was that each of them felt helpless and were resigned to it.

I suggested therapy to Mom. She ho-hummed it saying that she couldn't afford it. I've already done the route of rebuilding Dad's resume and doing mock-interviews with him. Anytime I talked with Dad and Mom about it, Dad turned into a 4 year old. "I won't work and you can't make me." Mom would just tell me that by bringing it up I was making it worse. By bringing me into the picture drew their focus away from the real issue between them,but I recognized that I was being manipulated. So, the question remains: How do you watch someone you love self-destruct?

I realized right away bringing my brother into the issue was a problem. He began to sell one of his I'll-save-them plans. He also took it personally that they were selling the membership. Like I said, bad idea.

Dr. C pointed out that the more I try to help, the more I create dependence and really, if I don't let them self-destruct, how will they know how to be self-reliant and solve the problem themselves? This insight seems like a, "well, duh," but I was clueless. By the way, most individuals do not have to learn this lesson of let-them-go until they have teenagers (unless you are a parentified child like me.)

So, with that I left the office. I left a bit unburdened and realized that the dependency factor is inherent in my relationship with my parents. I also realized I have control over it.

Will my parents self-destruct? More than likely. Its not a pretty reality, but I've decided to not accept the challenge of mission impossible: save your parents.