Leaning Tower of Tree-sa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!!!

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

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

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

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!

Why is it that I am always moving the warmest month of the year?  When I moved back to Utah and into an apartment with a boyfriend, it was over the 4th of July.  I again chose that lovely weekend when I moved into my house two years ago.  This year, I'm packing up over the Days of '47 weekend.  Oh yes, it is the annual State holiday of handcarts and bonnets.  As I sit among my cardboard jungle, the TV is on with 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 our diversity and spirit.  Diversity?  Everyone looks white to me.  There are tons of missionaries on the floats and floats made by the Mormons at their local ward or stake center (aka their church).  The floats look swallowed whole by the large wide streets that Brigham Young created so that the wagons could do a U turn without a problem.  Spirit?  The Church headquarters actually gives money to the stake centers for costs of creating the floats in the religious themes and then "calls" their followers to make the floats.  Only in Utah.  Ah, side thought:  how did the tradition of teenage girls twirling recreations of rifles in a marching band get started? 

I'm also on call this morning.  I couldn't get anyone to take the shift.  I joked that we would have an onslaught of handcart traumas.  Probably more heat exhaustion or fireworks injuries, but that will be later in the evening.  Perhaps I might land a teen girl getting hit in the head by one 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 a process.  Whenever I have doubt I think of my fiancé and his tendency to hang on to everything.  It makes it a very easy decision to get rid of things.  However when I think of the spatial disparity, I get nervous.  I have a lot more boxes going vs. staying.  Hard to think how this is all going to play out when I get there with the back room still filled with his stuff.As I watch the floats sponsored by a religious conglomerate, recreations of handcarts, 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 of Jesus, I can't help but think I'll actually miss the State.  As quirky as it is, it is still home.

Nordies

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

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

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

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

 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

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

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

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

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.