Tomorrow is one of those can't-get-out-of-my head type days. It's like anticipating a holiday or anniversary but without the excitement. The anticipation is more about the unknown. I don't know if I'll be a sobbing mess or if I'll be able to plaster on a cheesy smile and sail through the day. Tomorrow marks the 365th day since my mom passed away. What makes this day verses any other different is beyond me. I continue to mourn her death no matter what day of the week. It seems almost morbid to mark tomorrow as an anniversary because the word is associated with positive things, a first date, a first kiss, a wedding. Unfortunately, the date brings with it words I haven't been able to get out of my mind for the last month, "At this time last year I was..." And for the last month that phrase ended with, counting respirations, administering morphine, dressing wounds and telling my sweet, sweet mother how much I love her for the last time.
This last month has been a roller coaster of emotions. At one minute I'm smiling and laughing with friends, the next minute I'm sitting silently in a blank daze, and the next I'm fighting to hold back tears that are taking over. Those closest to me were warned from the beginning and have been more than understanding. It seems impossible that I just made it through one year without someone who was, for so long, involved 100% in my life as I was in hers. It seems impossible that I am to continue for the next years without her. That any future children I have will not know how wonderful she was. Sure, I can tell stories but they will never know her voice, her touch, her personality.
People called her stubborn. I call it strong. She fought her disease for two years as a single mother of five children and one grandchild. She worked a job until the day she went into the hospital for her final surgery. And when the doctor called me that night to tell me she had two days to live, she fought for two weeks. Two weeks that allowed us to talk, laugh, cry, and be a family. Two weeks for her to make sure she had taken care of everything and that her children would be OK when she was gone. She did her job. We are OK.
29 November 2008
06 November 2008
Call to duty
Hello friends.
As you know by now, I lost my best friend and mom to cancer last year. The last few months leading up to the one year mark have been very emotional for me. At this time last year, one of the things that helped me to get through this difficult time were the cards and good wishes that were sent my way.
This is where I ask a favor of you. A little boy, Evan Hoffman, I had the pleasure of meeting three years ago was diagnosed this last June with Rhabdomyosarcoma, a rare form of cancer of the soft tissue. He is currently battling this with 52 weeks of chemotherapy. As you might expect, he is unable to attend his 6th grade classes, go outside, or spend time with his friends and extended family.
Recently, Evan was given a map of the world and some push pins. For each card/message he receives he puts one pin on the map to represent the place from which the message came. The outpouring of responses have been phenomenal but it wouldn't hurt for him to get more. Please consider taking the time to write a note on the website for this wonderful little dude. He deserves all the support we can muster.
Thanks,
Xteener
As you know by now, I lost my best friend and mom to cancer last year. The last few months leading up to the one year mark have been very emotional for me. At this time last year, one of the things that helped me to get through this difficult time were the cards and good wishes that were sent my way.
This is where I ask a favor of you. A little boy, Evan Hoffman, I had the pleasure of meeting three years ago was diagnosed this last June with Rhabdomyosarcoma, a rare form of cancer of the soft tissue. He is currently battling this with 52 weeks of chemotherapy. As you might expect, he is unable to attend his 6th grade classes, go outside, or spend time with his friends and extended family.
Recently, Evan was given a map of the world and some push pins. For each card/message he receives he puts one pin on the map to represent the place from which the message came. The outpouring of responses have been phenomenal but it wouldn't hurt for him to get more. Please consider taking the time to write a note on the website for this wonderful little dude. He deserves all the support we can muster.
Thanks,
Xteener
05 November 2008
Buggers
While today was an all-in-all good day (Yay, OBAMA! & some other things that require far too much explanation, but good nonetheless) I would like to share with you a few things that drive me up the wall in a Trainspotting kind of way.
- Bad grammar* - let me give you an example of something I hear FAR too often.
"I seen that car drive through the red light." GAH! It pains me to even write those words down in that order. Since when are the words 'seen' and 'saw' interchangeable?
- Bad driving - From my first day in Springfield, I noticed one thing that most Springfieldians failed to learn in drivers ed. Turning into your own lane. It happens so much that most (99%) drivers will yield to those turning into the wrong lane as if it's common practice. Let me draw you a picture.
Oh how I love Photoshop. So, with this professionally, detailed picture I drew for you readers, you'll see what I mean. The black car is waiting patiently for the red car to turn into the far lane before the black car will even consider turning. This will take place as if there is nothing wrong. It would be far more efficient for each car to turn into their own lane, yes?
- More bad grammar - In the infamous words of Ross Geller (Season 4, The One With The Jellyfish), "Y-o-u'r-e means 'you are. Y-o-u-r means your!" The same goes for 'they're' and 'there.'
There, I've said my peace.
*Yes, I don't always have perfect grammar, in fact I'm sure there are a few typos throughout this post alone. I'm just saying.
- Bad grammar* - let me give you an example of something I hear FAR too often.
"I seen that car drive through the red light." GAH! It pains me to even write those words down in that order. Since when are the words 'seen' and 'saw' interchangeable?
- Bad driving - From my first day in Springfield, I noticed one thing that most Springfieldians failed to learn in drivers ed. Turning into your own lane. It happens so much that most (99%) drivers will yield to those turning into the wrong lane as if it's common practice. Let me draw you a picture.
Oh how I love Photoshop. So, with this professionally, detailed picture I drew for you readers, you'll see what I mean. The black car is waiting patiently for the red car to turn into the far lane before the black car will even consider turning. This will take place as if there is nothing wrong. It would be far more efficient for each car to turn into their own lane, yes?
- More bad grammar - In the infamous words of Ross Geller (Season 4, The One With The Jellyfish), "Y-o-u'r-e means 'you are. Y-o-u-r means your!" The same goes for 'they're' and 'there.'
There, I've said my peace.
*Yes, I don't always have perfect grammar, in fact I'm sure there are a few typos throughout this post alone. I'm just saying.
04 November 2008
Happy Election Day
It all started two years ago. Temperatures were below freezing and yet Bridge Man and I trekked our way through thousands of people to see this:
I am proud to be able to tell my great great grandchildren that I was there the very first time Obama announced his candidacy for president. I WAS THERE! Yes, it took my toes over an hour to thaw from standing outside on that February day in Illinois, but it was oh, SO worth it.
And now we have come full circle, dudes and dudettes. It's election day, and guess what I did.
I got a hair cut! Oh, yeah, and I voted. How fabulous is that?
Go out and do your American duties people. Al the cool kids are doing it.
I am proud to be able to tell my great great grandchildren that I was there the very first time Obama announced his candidacy for president. I WAS THERE! Yes, it took my toes over an hour to thaw from standing outside on that February day in Illinois, but it was oh, SO worth it.
And now we have come full circle, dudes and dudettes. It's election day, and guess what I did.
I got a hair cut! Oh, yeah, and I voted. How fabulous is that?
Go out and do your American duties people. Al the cool kids are doing it.
24 October 2008
To Vet or Not to Vet
I know, how crappy of me to stay away for so long and show back up out of the blue with nothing but a video. But.... come on, I'm trying. And how fun is a video all political and such. Enjoy.
08 October 2008
Curiouser and Couriouser
I must admit I've been sucked into the vortex that is this political campaign, the ever controversial "Race for the White House". Last night I passed up the option of school, you know, that thing that will hopefully make me a living one day, to watch the debate. I missed the first one because of school and couldn't bear the idea of missing all three. Was it worth it? Well, there was much to be desired but I'm glad I trudged through.
As I've stated before I wouldn't have the passion for politics if it weren't for Bridge Man. The boy is passionate about his politics. Check out this letter he e-mailed to senator McCain just this last week.
"John McCain: Your recent attacks toward Barack Obama claiming he "pals around with terrorist" are completely untrue and you know it. Over the last 2 years you have become a George W. Bush and Karl Rove style politician. You are spewing the same kind of garbage that was spewed about you by those two despicable people in the 2000 campaign. I used to have respect for you because you were one of the few politicians who actually treated those with whom you disagreed respectfully. If you weren't such a sellout you could have easily won this election. Because of your dishonorable and unpatriotic behavior reminiscent of Bush and Rove you have lost all of my respect and I find you to be not only a disgraceful senator but a disgraceful human being. Your choice of Sarah Palin is also disgraceful simply for the reason that it is well known your first choice was Joe Leiberman and because the "base" didn't approve of a democrat, God forbid, you went with a choice to please their irrationalizations instead of a choice that was based on the question "who is best for the country?". You have disgraced yourself and become someone other than the person for whom I once had respect. You will lose this election and our country will benefit greatly."
What can I say, when I'm not there to supervise his political intake, he gets mad and foams at the mouth.
I've been trying to think about each candidate with an open mind although sometimes I feel as if my opinion is already made. At our house, we spend a lot of time watching MSNBC, CNN, and on Sunday mornings, Meet the Press. And with my open mind, I can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe (dare I say it?) the news is biased. There are certain stations that are blatantly right wing and some that are blatantly left. And the idea that the news I watch does more than simply inform makes my eye twitch.
I know that I could simply choose to watch a different station but the fact is, no matter how curious I am, there are only a few programs I can stand to watch. So my question to you is, where do you get your news? Do you tend to watch/read news based on your preferred candidate? Maybe I should forgo news, stick to a simple list of the issues, and vote for the candidate I agree with most. Maybe that's the key.
As I've stated before I wouldn't have the passion for politics if it weren't for Bridge Man. The boy is passionate about his politics. Check out this letter he e-mailed to senator McCain just this last week.
"John McCain: Your recent attacks toward Barack Obama claiming he "pals around with terrorist" are completely untrue and you know it. Over the last 2 years you have become a George W. Bush and Karl Rove style politician. You are spewing the same kind of garbage that was spewed about you by those two despicable people in the 2000 campaign. I used to have respect for you because you were one of the few politicians who actually treated those with whom you disagreed respectfully. If you weren't such a sellout you could have easily won this election. Because of your dishonorable and unpatriotic behavior reminiscent of Bush and Rove you have lost all of my respect and I find you to be not only a disgraceful senator but a disgraceful human being. Your choice of Sarah Palin is also disgraceful simply for the reason that it is well known your first choice was Joe Leiberman and because the "base" didn't approve of a democrat, God forbid, you went with a choice to please their irrationalizations instead of a choice that was based on the question "who is best for the country?". You have disgraced yourself and become someone other than the person for whom I once had respect. You will lose this election and our country will benefit greatly."
What can I say, when I'm not there to supervise his political intake, he gets mad and foams at the mouth.
I've been trying to think about each candidate with an open mind although sometimes I feel as if my opinion is already made. At our house, we spend a lot of time watching MSNBC, CNN, and on Sunday mornings, Meet the Press. And with my open mind, I can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe (dare I say it?) the news is biased. There are certain stations that are blatantly right wing and some that are blatantly left. And the idea that the news I watch does more than simply inform makes my eye twitch.
I know that I could simply choose to watch a different station but the fact is, no matter how curious I am, there are only a few programs I can stand to watch. So my question to you is, where do you get your news? Do you tend to watch/read news based on your preferred candidate? Maybe I should forgo news, stick to a simple list of the issues, and vote for the candidate I agree with most. Maybe that's the key.
30 September 2008
Fabulous & Funny
The fabulous...
Are you sick of hearing about the wedding yet? Well, I won't talk about it anymore but I have to share that some of the professional photos have been posted on the photogs blog. Just click on our names at the side to see more. The very first one of Bridge Man is my favorite. I could stare at that picture all day. Boy do I have one handsome husband.
And the funny...
Since I tend to stay about one second behind the curve, you may have already seen this viral video. After I watched it for the 24th time and laughed for the 24th time I had to share. It's so tragically funny, an ideal combination for perfect humor.
Are you sick of hearing about the wedding yet? Well, I won't talk about it anymore but I have to share that some of the professional photos have been posted on the photogs blog. Just click on our names at the side to see more. The very first one of Bridge Man is my favorite. I could stare at that picture all day. Boy do I have one handsome husband.
And the funny...
Since I tend to stay about one second behind the curve, you may have already seen this viral video. After I watched it for the 24th time and laughed for the 24th time I had to share. It's so tragically funny, an ideal combination for perfect humor.
24 September 2008
Math with Bridge Man
It began as an ordinary trip to T@rget to pick up some toilet paper.
Think about how much money goes down the toilet. Literally down the toilet.
If this pack of TP costs 12 bucks and we buy one pack per month thats $144 per year.
Yeah, but how much do we spend in a lifetime?
OK, let's say you live to be 72. The first 20 years or so someone else was buying your toilet paper so we'll say you buy 50 years worth. That is... (thinking, thinking) $7,200 spent to wipe your butt over a lifetime.
Think how much money you would save if you would simply use your hand.
Think about how much money goes down the toilet. Literally down the toilet.
If this pack of TP costs 12 bucks and we buy one pack per month thats $144 per year.
Yeah, but how much do we spend in a lifetime?
OK, let's say you live to be 72. The first 20 years or so someone else was buying your toilet paper so we'll say you buy 50 years worth. That is... (thinking, thinking) $7,200 spent to wipe your butt over a lifetime.
Think how much money you would save if you would simply use your hand.
17 September 2008
Props
If you've been reading the ramblings I ever-so eloquently plop onto this site you may remember that I like to design/create my own jewelry. And if you know me personally you may have already received a one of a kind piece as a gift from me. My inspiration for this hobby started in a small, privately owned shop that I was introduced to by my new sister-in-law. She continues to inspire and wow me with her innovation and the beauty in the pieces she creates. While working on her second bachelors degree and working a steady job, she has managed to start a small, online business of her own called Metal Poesy to display and sell her beautiful work. Some of my favorite pieces include her Polaroid emulsions like this piece titled The Church.
Now that I've piqued your interest feel free to peruse her website and pass it along to someone you know who appreciates unique, one-of-a-kind jewelry.
Now that I've piqued your interest feel free to peruse her website and pass it along to someone you know who appreciates unique, one-of-a-kind jewelry.
10 September 2008
I said what to who now?
We've all seen Animal House, yes? If you haven't, please take this time to crawl out of your hole in the ground and visit your local video store. Warning, milk will shoot out your nose. Even if you're not drinking milk, it's inevitable. (Moving on...) A lot of us have had "those nights," you know, the ones we cannot remember no matter how hard we rack our brains. Exactly how many lemon drops did I consume? Who sent all of those text messages from my phone that read, "Im os drnk" or "I lobe u man."? (What is it in those alcoholic beverages that makes everyone so loving?) It has to be such an awful feeling to wake up in the morning and not remember the last 15 hours of your life.
I'm not much of a drinker. Two cocktails will make my face all red and I'm done for the night. The closest I've ever come to the stereotypical, drunken blackout was the morning after my friend's bachelorette party last summer. I woke up after a night of two amaretto stone sours (See, two drinks = my limit.) and felt movement from the other side of the bed. Considering that Bridge Man was in a bed three hours away from the one I woke up in, I panicked and tried to remember what I had done the night before. I could remember everything; we went to a minor league baseball game, headed to a friend's apartment for some gift giving and cake, then headed out to the local bars to consume my two drinks, and went to bed. In my panicked state I laid there for what seemed like hours. I was freaked out that I might roll over and see a stranger looking right at me. After reliving the night in my head I mustered up the courage to turn my head to see what random stranger lay in the bed next to me.
It was Moon Beam. The feeling of relief at that moment was so relieving, I was lucky to keep from peeing my pants.
...................................................................................................
Bridge Man (how do you like that segue?) is sleeping on the couch across the room right now. We have settled in this ritualistic way of going to bed every night. Bridge Man falls asleep after watching Seinfeld reruns and an always compelling hour of Countdown. I, on the other hand, spend the evening on the Internet returning emails and reading my ever growing blog roll before I flip the television to an episode of Scrubs and fall asleep. We're barely newlyweds, people. Yet we spend every night like an old married couple. My favorite is when the B-Man falls asleep in the same position in which he was watching TV. His head will slowly fall down, pop back up, and then he looses all control; his head will fall so quickly it wakes him from his slumber. He will look around confused and unsure of what took place. This goes on until about 3am, when he'll wake up and decide that it's probably time for us to finally go to bed.
Fast forward to the following morning. B-Man gets up before I do to get ready for work. I'll lay there is bed and try my hardest to remember how I got there in the first place. For those loyal readers out there you'll remember how insane I get when my sleep is disturbed. Sleep is a drug for me. Once I move into REM sleep there's no turning back and I black out. You can "wake" me, have full conversations, dance the meringue and I don't remember a wink. I slept through tornadoes that wiped down homes and buildings around me. (Seriously.) I slept through the earth quakes that shook the Midwest this last Spring. And I have to set two bloody alarm clocks each night to insure that I wake up for work each morning. I'm not exaggerating, people. Is this a survival method? Do my ancestors include bears and lady bugs? (Do you know that lady bugs hibernate? That's a fun little fact for you.)
I'm not much of a drinker. Two cocktails will make my face all red and I'm done for the night. The closest I've ever come to the stereotypical, drunken blackout was the morning after my friend's bachelorette party last summer. I woke up after a night of two amaretto stone sours (See, two drinks = my limit.) and felt movement from the other side of the bed. Considering that Bridge Man was in a bed three hours away from the one I woke up in, I panicked and tried to remember what I had done the night before. I could remember everything; we went to a minor league baseball game, headed to a friend's apartment for some gift giving and cake, then headed out to the local bars to consume my two drinks, and went to bed. In my panicked state I laid there for what seemed like hours. I was freaked out that I might roll over and see a stranger looking right at me. After reliving the night in my head I mustered up the courage to turn my head to see what random stranger lay in the bed next to me.
It was Moon Beam. The feeling of relief at that moment was so relieving, I was lucky to keep from peeing my pants.
...................................................................................................
Bridge Man (how do you like that segue?) is sleeping on the couch across the room right now. We have settled in this ritualistic way of going to bed every night. Bridge Man falls asleep after watching Seinfeld reruns and an always compelling hour of Countdown. I, on the other hand, spend the evening on the Internet returning emails and reading my ever growing blog roll before I flip the television to an episode of Scrubs and fall asleep. We're barely newlyweds, people. Yet we spend every night like an old married couple. My favorite is when the B-Man falls asleep in the same position in which he was watching TV. His head will slowly fall down, pop back up, and then he looses all control; his head will fall so quickly it wakes him from his slumber. He will look around confused and unsure of what took place. This goes on until about 3am, when he'll wake up and decide that it's probably time for us to finally go to bed.
Fast forward to the following morning. B-Man gets up before I do to get ready for work. I'll lay there is bed and try my hardest to remember how I got there in the first place. For those loyal readers out there you'll remember how insane I get when my sleep is disturbed. Sleep is a drug for me. Once I move into REM sleep there's no turning back and I black out. You can "wake" me, have full conversations, dance the meringue and I don't remember a wink. I slept through tornadoes that wiped down homes and buildings around me. (Seriously.) I slept through the earth quakes that shook the Midwest this last Spring. And I have to set two bloody alarm clocks each night to insure that I wake up for work each morning. I'm not exaggerating, people. Is this a survival method? Do my ancestors include bears and lady bugs? (Do you know that lady bugs hibernate? That's a fun little fact for you.)
As I reread my last few statements I realize that it's time for bed. Once I begin contemplating the existance of a cross between a bear and a lady bug my mind is offically shot for the day.
25 August 2008
White Wedding; Part Deux
Bridge Man and I are making a valiant effort unpacking everything. We loaded up my car on the way back from the honeymoon with decorations, gifts, luggage, and other such miscellaneous wedding items. For the last week or so, our living room was walk-able only by a path we had forged between the piles of crap we lazily put anywhere when unloading the car and before passing out after an 11 hour plane ride home from Hawaii. (That 11 hour time-frame doesn't include delays, eventual cancellations, layovers, and a three hour car trip. All of which I should get to later.)
Back to the good stuff. The ceremony was fabulous. Teej did a beautiful job as our officiant. One of my favorite parts of the wedding was that someone so close to me was such an integral part of such an important day for Bridge Man and me. I was so nervous to ask her if she'd be interested in the task all those months ago. What if she didn't feel comfortable with the idea but then feels obligated? When she said yes, I knew it was one decision for this wedding I would have no doubts.
The ceremony itself was so laid back, I couldn't believe how quickly it passed. The bridal party did a wonderful job. And I think they all looked so smart.
The guy's side included a long-time, mutual friend of both Bridge Man and me as the best man. I've known this guy since the fourth grade. We were science lab partners in the 6th grade. And to this day he is, other than B.M., one of the funniest people I know. Second in line is an old friend and golfing buddy for B.M. Next on the groom's side are both of my brothers, Ruckers and Maestro. Last in line is another of Bridge Man's friends from high school.
These are my girls. A line up of my best friends. My mom's sisters on the far left, my new sister-in-law in the middle, then Bear, and my maid-of-honor, Moon Beam, is on the far right. Don't they look lovely? I love these girls! (Oh, and the little guy in every picture with my sister, Bear, is my handome nephew, Wookis, who refused to leave his mother's side the entire time. Note the little thumb-sucker in the corner of this photo.
The flower girl, Bridge Man's cousin was so cute. Half of the way down the isle she ran out of petals, turned around to look at me and yelled, "I'm all out!" After a large sigh of exasperation she sharply turned around and ran toward her parents. This was my cue to proceed down the isle.
On my boquet hung a locket with a picture of my mom inside. She wanted to be the one to walk me down the isle when she found out that Bridge Man had proposed. Since no one in this galaxy could have replaced her, this was my way of keeping her close to me throughout the wedding.
Back to the good stuff. The ceremony was fabulous. Teej did a beautiful job as our officiant. One of my favorite parts of the wedding was that someone so close to me was such an integral part of such an important day for Bridge Man and me. I was so nervous to ask her if she'd be interested in the task all those months ago. What if she didn't feel comfortable with the idea but then feels obligated? When she said yes, I knew it was one decision for this wedding I would have no doubts.
The ceremony itself was so laid back, I couldn't believe how quickly it passed. The bridal party did a wonderful job. And I think they all looked so smart.
The guy's side included a long-time, mutual friend of both Bridge Man and me as the best man. I've known this guy since the fourth grade. We were science lab partners in the 6th grade. And to this day he is, other than B.M., one of the funniest people I know. Second in line is an old friend and golfing buddy for B.M. Next on the groom's side are both of my brothers, Ruckers and Maestro. Last in line is another of Bridge Man's friends from high school.
These are my girls. A line up of my best friends. My mom's sisters on the far left, my new sister-in-law in the middle, then Bear, and my maid-of-honor, Moon Beam, is on the far right. Don't they look lovely? I love these girls! (Oh, and the little guy in every picture with my sister, Bear, is my handome nephew, Wookis, who refused to leave his mother's side the entire time. Note the little thumb-sucker in the corner of this photo.
The flower girl, Bridge Man's cousin was so cute. Half of the way down the isle she ran out of petals, turned around to look at me and yelled, "I'm all out!" After a large sigh of exasperation she sharply turned around and ran toward her parents. This was my cue to proceed down the isle.
On my boquet hung a locket with a picture of my mom inside. She wanted to be the one to walk me down the isle when she found out that Bridge Man had proposed. Since no one in this galaxy could have replaced her, this was my way of keeping her close to me throughout the wedding.
20 August 2008
It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding
I've been meaning to tell you all about the wedding for the last few days but there is so much to share, the idea seems daunting and almost homework-like. An assignment that I've given to myself and have procrastinated to complete. And on the other side of the spectrum the professor side of me wants it completed, and quickly. So, after much adieu, I'll share the details of the festivities. Simply put, it turned out wonderfully.
The night before, also known as the rehearsal dinner, we spent just over an hour setting up the place before the bridal party began to show up. There was no wedding coordinator and the task of giving everyone their mark was left up to me. Something I hadn't hadn't considered until about two minutes before-hand. Maybe three minutes. Often I would turn to my aunt/Reverend just to make sure I had covered every detail. Between the two of us, the rehearsal went smoothly. We then caravan ed to a delicious Irish pub just a few blocks down the street to nibble on Bangers and Mash while enjoying Goose Island Honkers or a Smit'hwicks Irish Ale. The groom's men were happy to note that Bridge Man had picked out some sweet, sweet shades and their gift instead of something as traditional (and odd) as a flask or a money clip.
The night before, also known as the rehearsal dinner, we spent just over an hour setting up the place before the bridal party began to show up. There was no wedding coordinator and the task of giving everyone their mark was left up to me. Something I hadn't hadn't considered until about two minutes before-hand. Maybe three minutes. Often I would turn to my aunt/Reverend just to make sure I had covered every detail. Between the two of us, the rehearsal went smoothly. We then caravan ed to a delicious Irish pub just a few blocks down the street to nibble on Bangers and Mash while enjoying Goose Island Honkers or a Smit'hwicks Irish Ale. The groom's men were happy to note that Bridge Man had picked out some sweet, sweet shades and their gift instead of something as traditional (and odd) as a flask or a money clip.
I woke up the next morning with nothing but nerves. Strangely enough, my nerves were not for the wedding at the end of the day but for my bride's maids hair. I wasn't confident that it would all get done in the limited time we had to work. I did two heads of hair myself before having my own done and I must say, it turned out well. Here is Moon Beam and her b-e-a-utiful do.
Not too bad, huh?
My hair also turned out so wonderfully! My friend K.B. who is a cosmo-in-training like I am was my hero and made my vision come true. I wanted something a little different. No veil and no crown. Instead I went with an Oriental Lilly and an ivory feather. Check it out.
Once I was completely ready I went with the photographer to meet up with my future husband. She was so insistent that neither of us saw the other before we got to our final meeting place that we avoided the glass elevators in case he was outside and took a maintenance stairwell only to find it locked at the bottom. It was hilarious! We trekked our way back upstairs and gave in to the call of the elevators. But not before she made absolutely sure Bridge Man was no where to be found. We made it, and boy was I grateful that it had worked out because that first moment Bridge Man walked in the room was breath-taking. He. Looked. So. Handsome. I can't wait to see the pictures of that moment because I'm sure I stood there with my mouth gaping wide open. Classy.
... to be continued...
03 August 2008
6 Days
After nine wonderful years of dating, I will be Mrs. Bridge Man in t-minus six days! And what better way to commemorate these past nine years than with a photo montage of each fabulous one?
This is the very first picture ever taken of me and the Bridge guy. The guy to the right with the ball cap is Bridge Man's golfing buddy and one of the groomsmen in our wedding.
This was a camping trip to the Lake of the Ozarks with some friends. At this point, camping was about the extent of what we could afford but they led to some good times and some hilarious memories.
After our first year at college, away from the parental units, Bridge Man and I loved going to all the gorgeous outdoor locations only available in Southern Illinois. This is what the locals called the "Spillway." It is a four tiered waterfall that we would climb and swim in the lake at the top.
We took a weekend trip to Chicago where we visited the Field Museum. When done at the museum we decided to find some food. Off in the distance I spotted Navy Pier and suggested that. It was a beautiful day and I wanted to walk along the lake front. This was not the best idea, it took over an hour for us to hoof it the entire distance. There was no way we wanted to walk back to our car so we found a boat that was headed back that direction. It was miserable but fun.
This picture was taken at a benefit held for my mom the year she was diagnosed with cancer. My Bridge Man was and has been a huge support system for me during this time.
My mom took this picture of us during a family day trip to Starved Rock State Park. She conveniently framed the picture to include the word "Lovers." I love this picture.
This was Bridge Man's first trip to California to meet my crazy, fabulous family. We ended up using this picture as our engagement photo.
This photo commemorates the summer of weddings. Bridge Man and I wore these same outfits to three out of the nine weddings we've attended in the last year, not including our own.
This is the very first picture ever taken of me and the Bridge guy. The guy to the right with the ball cap is Bridge Man's golfing buddy and one of the groomsmen in our wedding.
This was a camping trip to the Lake of the Ozarks with some friends. At this point, camping was about the extent of what we could afford but they led to some good times and some hilarious memories.
After our first year at college, away from the parental units, Bridge Man and I loved going to all the gorgeous outdoor locations only available in Southern Illinois. This is what the locals called the "Spillway." It is a four tiered waterfall that we would climb and swim in the lake at the top. 
We took a weekend trip to Chicago where we visited the Field Museum. When done at the museum we decided to find some food. Off in the distance I spotted Navy Pier and suggested that. It was a beautiful day and I wanted to walk along the lake front. This was not the best idea, it took over an hour for us to hoof it the entire distance. There was no way we wanted to walk back to our car so we found a boat that was headed back that direction. It was miserable but fun. 
This picture was taken at a benefit held for my mom the year she was diagnosed with cancer. My Bridge Man was and has been a huge support system for me during this time. 
My mom took this picture of us during a family day trip to Starved Rock State Park. She conveniently framed the picture to include the word "Lovers." I love this picture.
This was Bridge Man's first trip to California to meet my crazy, fabulous family. We ended up using this picture as our engagement photo. 
This photo commemorates the summer of weddings. Bridge Man and I wore these same outfits to three out of the nine weddings we've attended in the last year, not including our own.
24 July 2008
Give Peace A Chance
I've been getting a bit wordy lately and I thought I'd share something I found on another blog that I read in lurkers-ville. I watched it and loved it and immediately thought of you. I thought you might like to hear the irony of something created over three decades ago that still pertains today. Peace.
Feel free to discucss. I love a good conversation.
Feel free to discucss. I love a good conversation.
20 July 2008
Fun in a port-a-potty
My nephew, Wookis, and brother, Ruckers, came to visit this last weekend. Bridge Man and I decided to take the boys to a local festival. Wookis is pretty much past the potty-training stage. For the most part, he knows when it's time to let someone know that he has to use the toilet but when he gets excited and doesn't want to miss a moment, he may forget to let someone know of his dilemma. Apparently, while at the festival the giant slide was much more important than the rumble in his tummy and while going down the slide on Ruckers' lap he lost control of his bowels. Fortunately for Ruckers, everything came out solid and the mess was contained only to Wookis and his Underoos.
I took it upon myself to clean up my nephew and his little mess but help was limited to the line-up of port-a-potties on one side of the festival grounds. These rectangular cesspools have three major design flaws; (1) they are not big enough for two people even if one of the two is under three feet tall, (2) there is no plumbing to speak of, the only liquid is the blue-green (and brown) mixture at the bottom of the hole, and (3) there is no air circulation. When the three-year old with a load of poo in his pants says "yucky" upon entering the plastic coffin, you know there's a problem. This, however is only the beginning of the fiasco that is cleaning up a poopy toddler in a port-a-potty. Not the most brilliant idea, I do admit.
There is a 1'x2' rectangle of space on either side of the hole that is the toilet. I decide to make Wookis stand on this spot while I clean him up to make the most of the limited available space. I need to remove his soiled shorts without him putting his clean little baby feet on the filthy surface but he has learned to take his shoes off while changing his clothes. His mama teaches him well. I pull one pant leg down, he takes his foot out of his shoe and out of the pant leg. I make him balance on one leg until I can get his shoe back on his foot. We repeat this process three more times until we get both articles of soiled clothing off.
To make matters worse, the two-sie was not as solid as I had hoped and left a brown trail down his chunky little leg. I reach for anything to clean him up only to find one-ply toilet paper that is almost as useful as using cotton candy to clean the soiled mess. This is about the time that I realize that the drawers that left a trail down Wookis' leg also left a trail on my left arm and hand. Wookis takes this moment of my horor to find the only clean thing in the port-a-potty; a hand sanitizer dispenser. He pushes the button, squeals with delight at his find and flings it into the two feet of stale, public toilet air. It was the cleanest moment of the whole ordeal.
By now, both Wookis and I have sweat dripping from our foreheads. He is standing, half dressed, leaning against me so he won't fall or touch anything. I am holding his bag full of toddler stuff and my purse in one hand as an attempt to keep everything as uncontaminated as possible. In the other hand I hold his poopy undies. My next genus idea is to dump the poo into the hole that Little Johnny considers a toilet and try to salvage the Spiderman underpants. Let's just say that each plop made a splash big enough to make contact. I quickly gave up on this idea and let the whole thing, undies, poop, and all fall into hole.
Hurriedly, I clean up my poor Wookis. I put on his fresh undies and shorts in the same remove shoe, enter leg, put on shoe fashion, times four. I soak both of us down with hand sanitizer and get out of that plastic toilet hell. He and I walk back across the festival grounds to meet back up with our party. All the while, thoughts of sanitized poo on my arm fill my mind. Sanitized poo is still poo, no? I am ready to go home and take a nice, long, hot shower.
The moral of this delightful story? I think I'll wait a while before having any children of my own. And when I finally do, we won't leave the house until there is no chance of an incident like this.
I took it upon myself to clean up my nephew and his little mess but help was limited to the line-up of port-a-potties on one side of the festival grounds. These rectangular cesspools have three major design flaws; (1) they are not big enough for two people even if one of the two is under three feet tall, (2) there is no plumbing to speak of, the only liquid is the blue-green (and brown) mixture at the bottom of the hole, and (3) there is no air circulation. When the three-year old with a load of poo in his pants says "yucky" upon entering the plastic coffin, you know there's a problem. This, however is only the beginning of the fiasco that is cleaning up a poopy toddler in a port-a-potty. Not the most brilliant idea, I do admit.
There is a 1'x2' rectangle of space on either side of the hole that is the toilet. I decide to make Wookis stand on this spot while I clean him up to make the most of the limited available space. I need to remove his soiled shorts without him putting his clean little baby feet on the filthy surface but he has learned to take his shoes off while changing his clothes. His mama teaches him well. I pull one pant leg down, he takes his foot out of his shoe and out of the pant leg. I make him balance on one leg until I can get his shoe back on his foot. We repeat this process three more times until we get both articles of soiled clothing off.
To make matters worse, the two-sie was not as solid as I had hoped and left a brown trail down his chunky little leg. I reach for anything to clean him up only to find one-ply toilet paper that is almost as useful as using cotton candy to clean the soiled mess. This is about the time that I realize that the drawers that left a trail down Wookis' leg also left a trail on my left arm and hand. Wookis takes this moment of my horor to find the only clean thing in the port-a-potty; a hand sanitizer dispenser. He pushes the button, squeals with delight at his find and flings it into the two feet of stale, public toilet air. It was the cleanest moment of the whole ordeal.
By now, both Wookis and I have sweat dripping from our foreheads. He is standing, half dressed, leaning against me so he won't fall or touch anything. I am holding his bag full of toddler stuff and my purse in one hand as an attempt to keep everything as uncontaminated as possible. In the other hand I hold his poopy undies. My next genus idea is to dump the poo into the hole that Little Johnny considers a toilet and try to salvage the Spiderman underpants. Let's just say that each plop made a splash big enough to make contact. I quickly gave up on this idea and let the whole thing, undies, poop, and all fall into hole.
Hurriedly, I clean up my poor Wookis. I put on his fresh undies and shorts in the same remove shoe, enter leg, put on shoe fashion, times four. I soak both of us down with hand sanitizer and get out of that plastic toilet hell. He and I walk back across the festival grounds to meet back up with our party. All the while, thoughts of sanitized poo on my arm fill my mind. Sanitized poo is still poo, no? I am ready to go home and take a nice, long, hot shower.
The moral of this delightful story? I think I'll wait a while before having any children of my own. And when I finally do, we won't leave the house until there is no chance of an incident like this.
New Fangled Parenting Tactics
One day at work last week this woman came in to get a manicure and a pedicure. Two full hours of service. She comes up to the front desk to check in while balancing a car seat holding a less-than-one-year-old little girl and clutching the hand of a little boy no older than ten. The other receptionists and I look at each other with questioning eyes. What does she expect to do with these two children while having her piggies polished?
She left them in the waiting room while she went back into the spa to pamper herself. Left them in the waiting room. For two full hours. All alone.
At this point, I'm kind of doubting her parenting skills. Not once, during the two hour stint does she come out to check on her infant daughter or her way-too-young-to-be-watching-an-infant-son. Not when he started wandering around the waiting room pocketing eight-dollar bottles of nail polish. Not when he found the computer hidden behind the plant for use by employees only and began banging on the keyboard in an impeccable Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation only to stop when the manager of the salon asked him politely to knock it off. Not when he started tipping his little sisters car seat almost completely upside down only to stop when I decided it wasn't a good idea to have an infant child hanging two feet from the air by the straps of her little seat. "Mom" didn't say anything when her little boy decided to start whistling a tune that turned out to be no tune at all. He simply whistled at will for twenty-five minutes only to stop when his sister began to scream and he couldn't get her to quiet down. The "mom" finally came out, annoyed because her pedicure was cut short, after letting her infant daughter screamed for, oh, 20 minutes or so. The icing on the cake? She wouldn't pick up her visibly unhappy baby daughter because she didn't want to smudge her freshly polished nails.
Now, I've never had any children of my own but does this seem inappropriate to anyone else? Maybe I'm not akin to this new form of parenting skills. New skills that include letting your children fend for themselves. Survival of the fittest. If that infant child cannot handle hanging upside down from her car seat then, sorry to say, but she won't make it in this dog-eat-dog world. Am I right? Is this now how we do this thing called parenting?
She left them in the waiting room while she went back into the spa to pamper herself. Left them in the waiting room. For two full hours. All alone.
At this point, I'm kind of doubting her parenting skills. Not once, during the two hour stint does she come out to check on her infant daughter or her way-too-young-to-be-watching-an-infant-son. Not when he started wandering around the waiting room pocketing eight-dollar bottles of nail polish. Not when he found the computer hidden behind the plant for use by employees only and began banging on the keyboard in an impeccable Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation only to stop when the manager of the salon asked him politely to knock it off. Not when he started tipping his little sisters car seat almost completely upside down only to stop when I decided it wasn't a good idea to have an infant child hanging two feet from the air by the straps of her little seat. "Mom" didn't say anything when her little boy decided to start whistling a tune that turned out to be no tune at all. He simply whistled at will for twenty-five minutes only to stop when his sister began to scream and he couldn't get her to quiet down. The "mom" finally came out, annoyed because her pedicure was cut short, after letting her infant daughter screamed for, oh, 20 minutes or so. The icing on the cake? She wouldn't pick up her visibly unhappy baby daughter because she didn't want to smudge her freshly polished nails.
Now, I've never had any children of my own but does this seem inappropriate to anyone else? Maybe I'm not akin to this new form of parenting skills. New skills that include letting your children fend for themselves. Survival of the fittest. If that infant child cannot handle hanging upside down from her car seat then, sorry to say, but she won't make it in this dog-eat-dog world. Am I right? Is this now how we do this thing called parenting?
08 July 2008
A Beautiful Thing: Part II
That Sunday, the last day of our trip in California was the day we, as a family, were going to scatter my mom's ashes into the Pacific ocean. Where the five of us, her children, decided it was most appropriate. There were some upsets during the course of the day. Drama including people who are uncomfortable with their emotions, the emotion churned up when you mourn the passing of your sister/daughter. Looking back, their uncertainty was understandable but I'm glad that we all were there for the final moment.
Once on the boat, we played a collaboration of my mom's favorite music on a portable CD player. We cruised around the harbor for a while in the electronic duffy. The box of my her ashes sat next to me and Maestro. Conversation gradually ceased. I looked across the duffy at my aunt who was mouthing the words to a Wilson Phillips classic, "Hold On." Behind her dark glasses I could see her tears. To her left, my grandpa had his hat pulled down over his face, his eyes glazed but unwavering. The emotions of the moment became overwhelming and this group of hard-headed people broke down. There was not a dry eye on that boat.
When the sweet, sweet words of Tanya Tucker sang through the speakers of that boom-box, "Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on? Could it be a faded rose from days gone by? And did I hear you say he was a-meeting you here today.? To take you to his mansion in the sky," we all sang with the chorus. It was a beautiful moment.
We stopped the boat under a bridge where we chose to scatter her ashes. We all took a handful of petals plucked from red carnations, her favorite flower, and tossed them into the water. Each of us took a moment to scatter some of her ashes into the water until there was a small amount remaining. My grandpa held onto the remaining ashes. I didn't know until later that day that he had saved them for my grandma who was unable to go out on the boat with us. They later scattered them in the back yard of their house. The home in which my mom was raised.
As we rode back to the boat dock we laughed and cried. We remembered. It was a beautiful day and I wouldn't change a single moment.
Once on the boat, we played a collaboration of my mom's favorite music on a portable CD player. We cruised around the harbor for a while in the electronic duffy. The box of my her ashes sat next to me and Maestro. Conversation gradually ceased. I looked across the duffy at my aunt who was mouthing the words to a Wilson Phillips classic, "Hold On." Behind her dark glasses I could see her tears. To her left, my grandpa had his hat pulled down over his face, his eyes glazed but unwavering. The emotions of the moment became overwhelming and this group of hard-headed people broke down. There was not a dry eye on that boat.
When the sweet, sweet words of Tanya Tucker sang through the speakers of that boom-box, "Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on? Could it be a faded rose from days gone by? And did I hear you say he was a-meeting you here today.? To take you to his mansion in the sky," we all sang with the chorus. It was a beautiful moment.
We stopped the boat under a bridge where we chose to scatter her ashes. We all took a handful of petals plucked from red carnations, her favorite flower, and tossed them into the water. Each of us took a moment to scatter some of her ashes into the water until there was a small amount remaining. My grandpa held onto the remaining ashes. I didn't know until later that day that he had saved them for my grandma who was unable to go out on the boat with us. They later scattered them in the back yard of their house. The home in which my mom was raised.
As we rode back to the boat dock we laughed and cried. We remembered. It was a beautiful day and I wouldn't change a single moment.
01 July 2008
A Beautiful Thing
As you know, we returned from a family trip to California last week. Everything went swimmingly considering the quantity of people per square footage. For the most part we all got along. And as for the few squabbles that took place, they were to be expected. I can only stand the sight of your smelly socks on my totally chic, totally bohemian purse for so long.
The first day we were there, we spent time catching up with everyone in between catching up on some overdue sleep. Flying with seven, inexperienced travelers takes a lot longer and a lot more effort than it was for just me and the fiancee last summer. But as I look back on our short, five-day stint in the O.C. I am so glad that, through all the chaos, it worked out. This trip was something that the seven of us have been looking forward to since the beginning of the year.
We spent the second day at The J.Paul Getty museum in L.A. If you are ever out that way, I highly recommend checking out this place. Although we only made it through one building, the three hour drive in rush hour traffic on the 405 was totally worth it. And the pièce de résistance; the garden maze/fountain. Absolutely stunning.
That evening we shared with family. My grandpa cooked burgers on the grill while the kiddies played on the grass and a few of us perused some of my grandma's old photo albums. I attempted to take pictures of the photos I wanted to have for myself such as my mom's senior picture from high school.
Keep in mind, this photo is pre-photoshop so I will have to work on editing out my reflection. But wasn't she beautiful?
Or there is the picture that my grandma refuses to take down from it's frame on the wall. The one that everyone points to and laughs, "Is that YOU?"
I'm not sure if it's the stripe of the bathing suit or the poorly placed ruffle, but there is something about this picture that screams, this baby is going to grow up to have thunder thighs and a ba-donk-a-donk to match. (I'm not looking for compliments, I've grown to like (read: accept) my thunder thighs.)
We spent the next day on the beach. The boys went surfing in the early morning and by the time the rest of us showed up they were sufficiently battered and bruised to spend the rest of the day lounging around. I loved the times we all sat around and simply talked. To me that was the point of the whole trip; to reconnect. For these moments, I was in my element. I would sit silently and listen to what everyone had to say. I loved that my younger siblings were so comfortable in an environment that I had grown to love so much as a child and that they knew so little of before the trip.
However, no matter what, the most meaningful part of the trip was that next day, Sunday. It couldn't have been a more meaningful day. (Did I mention that it was meaningful?) However, it's getting late and I need some sleep so I will continue this in a few days. At a time when I am not half asleep on my keyboard and will be able to give the story justice. Until then, nighty-night.
The first day we were there, we spent time catching up with everyone in between catching up on some overdue sleep. Flying with seven, inexperienced travelers takes a lot longer and a lot more effort than it was for just me and the fiancee last summer. But as I look back on our short, five-day stint in the O.C. I am so glad that, through all the chaos, it worked out. This trip was something that the seven of us have been looking forward to since the beginning of the year.
We spent the second day at The J.Paul Getty museum in L.A. If you are ever out that way, I highly recommend checking out this place. Although we only made it through one building, the three hour drive in rush hour traffic on the 405 was totally worth it. And the pièce de résistance; the garden maze/fountain. Absolutely stunning.
That evening we shared with family. My grandpa cooked burgers on the grill while the kiddies played on the grass and a few of us perused some of my grandma's old photo albums. I attempted to take pictures of the photos I wanted to have for myself such as my mom's senior picture from high school.
Keep in mind, this photo is pre-photoshop so I will have to work on editing out my reflection. But wasn't she beautiful?
Or there is the picture that my grandma refuses to take down from it's frame on the wall. The one that everyone points to and laughs, "Is that YOU?"
I'm not sure if it's the stripe of the bathing suit or the poorly placed ruffle, but there is something about this picture that screams, this baby is going to grow up to have thunder thighs and a ba-donk-a-donk to match. (I'm not looking for compliments, I've grown to like (read: accept) my thunder thighs.)
We spent the next day on the beach. The boys went surfing in the early morning and by the time the rest of us showed up they were sufficiently battered and bruised to spend the rest of the day lounging around. I loved the times we all sat around and simply talked. To me that was the point of the whole trip; to reconnect. For these moments, I was in my element. I would sit silently and listen to what everyone had to say. I loved that my younger siblings were so comfortable in an environment that I had grown to love so much as a child and that they knew so little of before the trip.
However, no matter what, the most meaningful part of the trip was that next day, Sunday. It couldn't have been a more meaningful day. (Did I mention that it was meaningful?) However, it's getting late and I need some sleep so I will continue this in a few days. At a time when I am not half asleep on my keyboard and will be able to give the story justice. Until then, nighty-night.
25 June 2008
Babies on Parade
The family and I went to California this last week to visit the place I will soon call home. Again. The whole trip had it's ups and downs but one major up was that I got to meet my new cousins. They were both born this last fall and I've been squirming in my seat since then to see their chubby cheeks and their tiny feets.
Also, my favorite nephew got to play with his cousin of the same age while we were out there. They were instantaneously BFFs. They liked to hold hands and share "Thomas Trains" and "moto-cycles."
Admittedly, I went a little shutter happy but there is no way these pictures didn't make you smile.
The best part of it all, these little ones loved their auntie/cousin Xteener from the get-go. Well, for the most part. The beautiful baby with the dark brown hair was a little harder to convince but by the end of the week I could come within three feet of her and she wouldn't cry. She even let me take one of these:
Also, my favorite nephew got to play with his cousin of the same age while we were out there. They were instantaneously BFFs. They liked to hold hands and share "Thomas Trains" and "moto-cycles."
Admittedly, I went a little shutter happy but there is no way these pictures didn't make you smile.
The best part of it all, these little ones loved their auntie/cousin Xteener from the get-go. Well, for the most part. The beautiful baby with the dark brown hair was a little harder to convince but by the end of the week I could come within three feet of her and she wouldn't cry. She even let me take one of these:
24 June 2008
I love to laugh. Ha-ha-ha-ha!
This Seinfeld clip makes me laugh every time. In fact, I just watched it four times and now have tears streaming down my face. Enjoy.
22 May 2008
The Salon Nazi
It's amazing how one phone call can ruin ones day. Something as quick as a five... ten... or even a twenty minute conversation out of the entire twenty-four hours that make up a day can effect how the rest of your day goes. Those minutes are a mere fraction of the day and yet what a difference they make. It's amazing how my willingness to take other people's crap dimenishes as the work week progresses. That perky work-voice that starts out the beginning of the week turns into a "Hi. Whatdoyouwant?" by the end of the week.
Normally I am able to put on my fake smile and pretend that no matter how asenine your request is, I am absolutly thrilled to do it for you. No matter how long you keep me on the phone because you're not quite sure when you can spare 15 minutes to get your eyebrows waxed while a line forms at my desk. Or when you call to make an appointment for your mother, daughter, sister, brother, and have no idea what time they could make it into the salon next week. And then I thank you, ever so nicely for wasting the last five minutes of my life.
Here are a few tips for making appointments at a salon or spa:
- Before having the receptionist book an appointment for you, make sure to inform her or him of all services you are looking to receive. Do you think that just because you can get in with your favorite stylist at 3pm tomorrow that everything else you want done will magically work around that time? No, it won't. In order to coordinate your appointments, your receptionist should know that you want a Brazillian in addition to your shampoo, blowdry, flat iron.
- Do not call into the salon and start the conversation off like this, "Hi, I would like to make an appointment." and then wait for your receptionist to respond because I can guarantee you that it will be, "For what?" Sure, I can make an appointment for you, let me just pick a service out of my magic hat over here. Wow, it's your lucky day, you get to come in next Thursday for microdermabrasion. Oh, you wanted a hair cut? I'm sorry, we make appointments based on what the magic hat says.
- DO NOT ask for your receptionist to leave a message for your sylist to call you to come in on their day off. How would you like it if your boss called to ask if you could come on into work on a regularly scheduled day off because Monday just won't work for her or him? You would be none too pleased.
- Do not tell your receptionist your life story while booking an appointment. She or he has five other phone lines flashing red and ten people waiting in line to pay. All they need to know is what you're booking the appointment for, what technician you want to see, and when you want to come in. NEXT!
- Finally, when your receptionist asks, "How can I help you?" do not reply, "I'm beyond help." and then laugh as if that joke has never before been used. Because it has, about fifty-thousand times a day. And it's not funny.
As long as you follow these guidelines, your trip to a salon or spa should be quite relaxing. You won't have to worry that the receptionist you just ticked off will be pouring your diet coke right over your brand new hair-do.
Normally I am able to put on my fake smile and pretend that no matter how asenine your request is, I am absolutly thrilled to do it for you. No matter how long you keep me on the phone because you're not quite sure when you can spare 15 minutes to get your eyebrows waxed while a line forms at my desk. Or when you call to make an appointment for your mother, daughter, sister, brother, and have no idea what time they could make it into the salon next week. And then I thank you, ever so nicely for wasting the last five minutes of my life.
Here are a few tips for making appointments at a salon or spa:
- Before having the receptionist book an appointment for you, make sure to inform her or him of all services you are looking to receive. Do you think that just because you can get in with your favorite stylist at 3pm tomorrow that everything else you want done will magically work around that time? No, it won't. In order to coordinate your appointments, your receptionist should know that you want a Brazillian in addition to your shampoo, blowdry, flat iron.
- Do not call into the salon and start the conversation off like this, "Hi, I would like to make an appointment." and then wait for your receptionist to respond because I can guarantee you that it will be, "For what?" Sure, I can make an appointment for you, let me just pick a service out of my magic hat over here. Wow, it's your lucky day, you get to come in next Thursday for microdermabrasion. Oh, you wanted a hair cut? I'm sorry, we make appointments based on what the magic hat says.
- DO NOT ask for your receptionist to leave a message for your sylist to call you to come in on their day off. How would you like it if your boss called to ask if you could come on into work on a regularly scheduled day off because Monday just won't work for her or him? You would be none too pleased.
- Do not tell your receptionist your life story while booking an appointment. She or he has five other phone lines flashing red and ten people waiting in line to pay. All they need to know is what you're booking the appointment for, what technician you want to see, and when you want to come in. NEXT!
- Finally, when your receptionist asks, "How can I help you?" do not reply, "I'm beyond help." and then laugh as if that joke has never before been used. Because it has, about fifty-thousand times a day. And it's not funny.
As long as you follow these guidelines, your trip to a salon or spa should be quite relaxing. You won't have to worry that the receptionist you just ticked off will be pouring your diet coke right over your brand new hair-do.
19 May 2008
I lost my rose colored glasses for a bit
Last week was an emotional one. You are all very lucky I didn't decide to post about every loop, twirl, twist, and flip. You may have ended up with a stomach ache and I probably don't have enough Tum*s to go around. The week began with Mother's Day, about which I thought I would write a what-I-loved-about-my-mom type post in her memory but every time the thought eeked its way into my consciousness, on came the water-works. I think I'll save that idea for next Mother's Day, or maybe Mother's Day 2015.
The next day was my birthday. The big two-six. During the days prior to this, my day of birth, friends asked what I wanted to do in celebration. My response consisted of a quick shoulder shrug and subject change, in one fluid motion. I was really quite good at it. When the day finally came to fruition, Bridge Man was out of town on a business trip and my friend, J, whom I dub Moon Beam was in St. Louis signing her life away. (We will get to that little gem in a bit.) So I spent the evening walking around Tar*get until a disembodied voice told me that the store would be closing in five minutes and I should make my final selections and head to the front of the store.
The next day, Tuesday, I went to work in my continued state of funk. The work day went on as usual; me and my uber fake, uber cheese smile and overly-perky attitude to appease the man. I fooled them all. (Insert evil laugh here.) When I returned home, Moon Beam stopped by to wish me a belated birthday and share her thrilling news. (Sense the sarcasm.) She had just signed up for the National Guard for six long years. I realize that Moon Beam is a big girl and can make her own decisions and as a good friend, I should support her and her endeavors but this news couldn't have come at a worse time. I don't know if you remember so let me give a quick recap: me = funk. Therefore I was anything but the good, supportive friend that I should have been. That evening after I found out that my little sister, Smash, had coincidentally also signed her life away that day, but to the Navy, I inappropriately said to Moon Beam that they would both be dead by next year. Judge all you want. I judge myself for that doozy of a statement. There is no excuse. Fortunately, M.B. seems to be very understanding of my attitude. She has experienced the wrath of my bad moods in the past and is being very understanding, no matter how undeserving I am.
The remainder of the week was fairly uneventful other than my continued funk-a-fied state, from which I've since moved on. We did take a quick trip North to visit the family this weekend. It ended up being just the thing I needed to turn my mood around. In an effort to keep from taking you, the reader, down in my funk here are some pictures of the hilariously, fun frisbee game I played with my sibs and Bridge Man this weekend.
This is Bridge Man in action.
My youngest brother doesn't like to have his picture taken, and his solution to the sister (me) with an over-zealous photo finger is to bend over. HA!
I told Bear to pretend like she was going to throw the frisbee since I wasn't fast enough to play the game and take action shots at the same time. It's realisic, no?
This last image was taken through the lense of my rose colored glasses. Those are my two brothers in the midst of our fabulous frisbee game. It's moments like these that remind me that I should quit feeling sorry for myself, put on my big girl panties, and remember to live.
The next day was my birthday. The big two-six. During the days prior to this, my day of birth, friends asked what I wanted to do in celebration. My response consisted of a quick shoulder shrug and subject change, in one fluid motion. I was really quite good at it. When the day finally came to fruition, Bridge Man was out of town on a business trip and my friend, J, whom I dub Moon Beam was in St. Louis signing her life away. (We will get to that little gem in a bit.) So I spent the evening walking around Tar*get until a disembodied voice told me that the store would be closing in five minutes and I should make my final selections and head to the front of the store.
The next day, Tuesday, I went to work in my continued state of funk. The work day went on as usual; me and my uber fake, uber cheese smile and overly-perky attitude to appease the man. I fooled them all. (Insert evil laugh here.) When I returned home, Moon Beam stopped by to wish me a belated birthday and share her thrilling news. (Sense the sarcasm.) She had just signed up for the National Guard for six long years. I realize that Moon Beam is a big girl and can make her own decisions and as a good friend, I should support her and her endeavors but this news couldn't have come at a worse time. I don't know if you remember so let me give a quick recap: me = funk. Therefore I was anything but the good, supportive friend that I should have been. That evening after I found out that my little sister, Smash, had coincidentally also signed her life away that day, but to the Navy, I inappropriately said to Moon Beam that they would both be dead by next year. Judge all you want. I judge myself for that doozy of a statement. There is no excuse. Fortunately, M.B. seems to be very understanding of my attitude. She has experienced the wrath of my bad moods in the past and is being very understanding, no matter how undeserving I am.
The remainder of the week was fairly uneventful other than my continued funk-a-fied state, from which I've since moved on. We did take a quick trip North to visit the family this weekend. It ended up being just the thing I needed to turn my mood around. In an effort to keep from taking you, the reader, down in my funk here are some pictures of the hilariously, fun frisbee game I played with my sibs and Bridge Man this weekend.
This is Bridge Man in action.
My youngest brother doesn't like to have his picture taken, and his solution to the sister (me) with an over-zealous photo finger is to bend over. HA!
I told Bear to pretend like she was going to throw the frisbee since I wasn't fast enough to play the game and take action shots at the same time. It's realisic, no?
This last image was taken through the lense of my rose colored glasses. Those are my two brothers in the midst of our fabulous frisbee game. It's moments like these that remind me that I should quit feeling sorry for myself, put on my big girl panties, and remember to live.
07 May 2008
Me Too
I met my twin last night. She's a 54-year-old Jamaican woman with a thick, thick accent. She came into school last night to have her hair done and I happened to be her stylist. Was it fate? Eh, maybe. A coincidence? Quite possibly. Utter insanity? Yes, yes, ten-thousand times, yes. Yes, I realize I don't remotely resemble that of a 54-year-old Jamaican woman. But after talking to her for the three hours it took to color, wash, blow dry, and style her hair, we found that we have enough in common for it to be a little unbelievable.
Our conversation began like those of every stranger that sits in my chair. Is it still cold/raining/sunny outside? Did you just get off work? What do you do for a living? Normally, at that point something comes up to spark a conversation that hopefully lasts throughout the hair process. There's nothing like the awkwardness of not knowing what to say to someone with a head full of foils that have to process for another 30 minutes.
I asked her about her job and her response was polite but short. She works part-time as a teaching assistant. The conversation went on like this for a few minutes. Then something struck a chord and her guard lifted. Her family of two brothers still lives in Jamaica where she grew up. After working for two years as a flight attendant in her twenties she decided to move to the states to go to college and work in elementary education. This part of the conversation was all well and good. Fairly normal. Then she mentioned her mom.
Her mother passed over in November.
I responded with a generic, "I'm so sorry for your loss" response. At this point there isn't much else I can say without losing my composure.
She then went on to tell me about the difficulties she has experienced after such a loss. She had to drastically cut back her work schedule in order to maintain her sanity. Working with young children while grieving the loss of her loved one was simply too much.
The similarities between our stories were so remarkable that I broke down and told her about my mom. How she passed in November and how the situation affected my career status. I told her about my writing and how I use it as a venue to express my feelings about my loss and other things going on in my life.
She too is a writer, a poet. She recited one of her poems about her experience with loss that was published in several local publications. In the poem, palm trees from her home in Jamaica represented her spirit; while a palm tree stands tall and strong on a warm, sunny day, it will bend and break under the stress of something as destructive as the Mother Nature.
I too am being published. It's something I have shared with a select few people because I don't want to jinx it but I chose to share this news with the stranger in my chair. When I told her the authors name her eyes got wide.
Her brother had, just last week, mailed her one of said author's books.
Now, at this point in my life, the idea of fate is a blurry subject for me but our meeting was the closest thing to fate I've experienced. And while hair dye continued to stain her ever greying roots she excitedly proclaimed that our meeting was nothing short of destiny. It was meant to be. No matter how much I'd like to believe that we are more than a big ball of chaos and pollution plummeting through space until our inevitable doom, my faith in destiny/fate has dwindled to confusion. And this meeting did nothing more than increase my confusion.
Who's to say that she and I were destined to meet on that Tuesday night to talk for three hours about our similar life experiences or our shared passion for jewelry making, photography, and Project Runway? If anything, it could have been nothing more than a chance meeting of two genetically polar people on a similar life path.
At the end of the night, after she was properly primped, she left me with a hug and a scrap of paper containing her contact information. It is now up to me. Do I contact her? Was this meeting fate or simply that of two grieving souls desperately seeking solace from someone who can understand?
Our conversation began like those of every stranger that sits in my chair. Is it still cold/raining/sunny outside? Did you just get off work? What do you do for a living? Normally, at that point something comes up to spark a conversation that hopefully lasts throughout the hair process. There's nothing like the awkwardness of not knowing what to say to someone with a head full of foils that have to process for another 30 minutes.
I asked her about her job and her response was polite but short. She works part-time as a teaching assistant. The conversation went on like this for a few minutes. Then something struck a chord and her guard lifted. Her family of two brothers still lives in Jamaica where she grew up. After working for two years as a flight attendant in her twenties she decided to move to the states to go to college and work in elementary education. This part of the conversation was all well and good. Fairly normal. Then she mentioned her mom.
Her mother passed over in November.
I responded with a generic, "I'm so sorry for your loss" response. At this point there isn't much else I can say without losing my composure.
She then went on to tell me about the difficulties she has experienced after such a loss. She had to drastically cut back her work schedule in order to maintain her sanity. Working with young children while grieving the loss of her loved one was simply too much.
The similarities between our stories were so remarkable that I broke down and told her about my mom. How she passed in November and how the situation affected my career status. I told her about my writing and how I use it as a venue to express my feelings about my loss and other things going on in my life.
She too is a writer, a poet. She recited one of her poems about her experience with loss that was published in several local publications. In the poem, palm trees from her home in Jamaica represented her spirit; while a palm tree stands tall and strong on a warm, sunny day, it will bend and break under the stress of something as destructive as the Mother Nature.
I too am being published. It's something I have shared with a select few people because I don't want to jinx it but I chose to share this news with the stranger in my chair. When I told her the authors name her eyes got wide.
Her brother had, just last week, mailed her one of said author's books.
Now, at this point in my life, the idea of fate is a blurry subject for me but our meeting was the closest thing to fate I've experienced. And while hair dye continued to stain her ever greying roots she excitedly proclaimed that our meeting was nothing short of destiny. It was meant to be. No matter how much I'd like to believe that we are more than a big ball of chaos and pollution plummeting through space until our inevitable doom, my faith in destiny/fate has dwindled to confusion. And this meeting did nothing more than increase my confusion.
Who's to say that she and I were destined to meet on that Tuesday night to talk for three hours about our similar life experiences or our shared passion for jewelry making, photography, and Project Runway? If anything, it could have been nothing more than a chance meeting of two genetically polar people on a similar life path.
At the end of the night, after she was properly primped, she left me with a hug and a scrap of paper containing her contact information. It is now up to me. Do I contact her? Was this meeting fate or simply that of two grieving souls desperately seeking solace from someone who can understand?
01 May 2008
Pardon me while I gush
I had the most amazing weekend. There was one tiny flaw but it rated a 0.5 on the flaw Richter scale. It was nothing really. So, I'll move on to share the shear amazing-ness of my weekend. I went to the Discover 2008 Hair Show in St. Louis. It's put on every year by State Beauty Supply, a national beauty supply company. The show consists of new hair products, tools, and techniques. There are platform artists that demonstrate the new products, tools, and techniques. And there are great sales on the products, tools, and- well, techniques in my case. But I'll get to that a little later. It's a cosmetologist heaven. And I took full advantage of everything available. I picked up professional products for one-third of the retail price! It. Was. Amazing. I scrounged for free samples all over the place. So much so, I won't have to buy shampoo and conditioner for over a year.
Now that I've officially bored you to tears talking about amazing sales on flat irons and shampoo... (They were amazing people, did I mention that?)
The best, most amazing, most fabulous part of my weekend was that I got to be a hair model for the Farouk Systems platform artists! (The parent company for CHI and BioSilk.) A fellow cosmo girl and I took a chance and got the opportunity to be on stage with Mickey and Bradley as the opening act. It was like a rock-n-roll concert. There were girls in tiny outfits dancing around on the stage with guitars while Mickey and Bradley danced around me, hacking away at my hair. A friend of mine captured the entire thing on her camera and I'm waiting (ever so patiently) for her to upload it so I can share it with you, my bloggie friends. Until then, watch the video I linked above to capture the full extent of what happened to my head. Oh the insanity!
For now, I hope you can be satisfied with a before and after picture.
That's me on the left, looking all blah with my blah hair and my friend K.B. on the right looking fabulous as always.
Check me out people! All, I can say is that this is probably one of the best hair cuts I've ever had. It's so easy to style and I love the way it looks! (Could I be any more smitten over my cut? YES, I COULD!) The video will be posted once I get my anxious little hands on it. Until then, be jealous. Be very jealous*.
And to those people who look at my new do and gasp, "But you're getting married in less than four months!" Please calm down for a sec. Am I not allowed to get married with short hair? Is this a new law I'm not familiar with? I don't think so. The minister isn't going to turn me away at the altar after measuring my hair with a yard stick and finding that my hair is just too short for me to be wed.
*I'm not normally like this, but I seriously cannot stop gushing!!
Now that I've officially bored you to tears talking about amazing sales on flat irons and shampoo... (They were amazing people, did I mention that?)
The best, most amazing, most fabulous part of my weekend was that I got to be a hair model for the Farouk Systems platform artists! (The parent company for CHI and BioSilk.) A fellow cosmo girl and I took a chance and got the opportunity to be on stage with Mickey and Bradley as the opening act. It was like a rock-n-roll concert. There were girls in tiny outfits dancing around on the stage with guitars while Mickey and Bradley danced around me, hacking away at my hair. A friend of mine captured the entire thing on her camera and I'm waiting (ever so patiently) for her to upload it so I can share it with you, my bloggie friends. Until then, watch the video I linked above to capture the full extent of what happened to my head. Oh the insanity!
For now, I hope you can be satisfied with a before and after picture.
That's me on the left, looking all blah with my blah hair and my friend K.B. on the right looking fabulous as always.
Check me out people! All, I can say is that this is probably one of the best hair cuts I've ever had. It's so easy to style and I love the way it looks! (Could I be any more smitten over my cut? YES, I COULD!) The video will be posted once I get my anxious little hands on it. Until then, be jealous. Be very jealous*.
And to those people who look at my new do and gasp, "But you're getting married in less than four months!" Please calm down for a sec. Am I not allowed to get married with short hair? Is this a new law I'm not familiar with? I don't think so. The minister isn't going to turn me away at the altar after measuring my hair with a yard stick and finding that my hair is just too short for me to be wed.
*I'm not normally like this, but I seriously cannot stop gushing!!
22 April 2008
The Circle of Command
Now pay attention.
I go to cosmetology school.
I work at a salon.
The two are owned by the same people.
This can get confusing. Especially when I tell stories about school, or work.
The same things happen at both places.
Hair cuts
Perm waves
Pedicures
Facials
The chain of command is especially confusing.
One of my instructors at school is a nail technician at work. This means she is my boss at work and kind of a boss-type at school. Not so confusing.
One of the lead receptionists at work is a junior student at school. I am not a lead receptionist at work but am a senior student at school. She tells me how it's done during the day, I tell her how it's done at night.
My boss at work was student with me at the cosmetology school. This made us equals until she became my boss. Now she is my boss at work and training to be an instructor at school. At work, she's in charge. At school, she's not allowed to tell me what to do. This is a little more confusing, no?
Another instructor at school is a frequent client at work. This means I get to serve her bottled water while she waits to get her hair colored during the day and then she critiques the placement of my perm rods at night.
Sometimes I work from 8am to 4pm and then go to school from 5pm to 9pm all in the same day. The roles have to change that quickly. On the most confusing of days I go from being a pee-on at one moment to the big man on campus the next. Fortunately I've gotten used to switching roles appropriately.
The whole thing kind of reminds me of the old folk song, I'm My Own Grandpa. See if you can figure this one out.
I go to cosmetology school.
I work at a salon.
The two are owned by the same people.
This can get confusing. Especially when I tell stories about school, or work.
The same things happen at both places.
Hair cuts
Perm waves
Pedicures
Facials
The chain of command is especially confusing.
One of my instructors at school is a nail technician at work. This means she is my boss at work and kind of a boss-type at school. Not so confusing.
One of the lead receptionists at work is a junior student at school. I am not a lead receptionist at work but am a senior student at school. She tells me how it's done during the day, I tell her how it's done at night.
My boss at work was student with me at the cosmetology school. This made us equals until she became my boss. Now she is my boss at work and training to be an instructor at school. At work, she's in charge. At school, she's not allowed to tell me what to do. This is a little more confusing, no?
Another instructor at school is a frequent client at work. This means I get to serve her bottled water while she waits to get her hair colored during the day and then she critiques the placement of my perm rods at night.
Sometimes I work from 8am to 4pm and then go to school from 5pm to 9pm all in the same day. The roles have to change that quickly. On the most confusing of days I go from being a pee-on at one moment to the big man on campus the next. Fortunately I've gotten used to switching roles appropriately.
The whole thing kind of reminds me of the old folk song, I'm My Own Grandpa. See if you can figure this one out.
17 April 2008
The Luckiest People
I just wanted to announce it to the world that Bridge Man and I are undoubtedly the luckiest couple in the world. Before your gag reflex kicks in, please take a moment to let me explain. But before I explain, I'm going to take a quick detour.
The lottery.
What are the chances of winning the lottery or the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes? How many people actually win these things? What would you do if you won mega millions? Would you turn to Ed McMahon and say no thanks, I'm not interested - My five-figure salary will suffice for now. Can I get you something to drink Mr. McMahon? Would you say that winners of these lotteries have defied the odds? I think you would. Well then, ladies and gentlemen, Bridge Man and I have defied these minuscule odds - five times! No, we haven't won the lottery. Ed McMahon hasn't shown up at our door with a really big check and some balloons. Not yet anyway. I may already be a winner after all.
Let me explain.
The moment Bridge Man and I got engaged our names and addresses were instantaneously sold to wedding vendors across the globe who immediately took it upon themselves to mail us every pamphlet/brochure/magazine/coupon they could stuff into our mailbox. And those who were really lucky somehow managed to get a hold of my cell phone number. One of my personal favorites from this really lucky lot, is A*merican Presti*ge. They like to call and tell me how I've been randomly selected as the winner of a four-day, five-night vacation to the location of my choice. All I have to do is attend a presentation that night about Tupperware and pay my own airfare. That's all!
The first time I got this call, I listened to the nice ladies mantra before I graciously declined. The second, third, and fourth time they called to tell me that I was picked out of millions as the winner of this fantastic vacation package getaway I was at work and unable to answer the phone. They would call three and four times in a day because the day you are selected to win you must go in to see the Tupperware presentation that night or you are disqualified to receive the amazing prize. So you'd think that I'd be disqualified after the second or third or even the fourth go-round.
Oh, no. In fact, my name was miraculously chosen out of millions for the fifth time as the winner of this dream vacation. Only this time I answered the phone. And as I sat there silently listening to the nice lady tell me about this great prize, I wonder if I should stop her before she gets too deep into her script or if I should be polite and listen even though I already know my answer. I decide to forgo manners if for no reason other than to make her job easier. I interrupted her to very nicely decline. Why should I make her go through the entire five minute monologue when I already know that it's a waste of her time? Anyway, like I said, I was polite and said no thanks. To which she abruptly said, OK, and hung up. (Which makes me so glad I gave it so much thought.)
So I ask you, is there anything luckier than being randomly selected to win a dream getaway FIVE TIMES? I think not. Bridge Man and I must be some of the luckiest people in the world.
The lottery.
What are the chances of winning the lottery or the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes? How many people actually win these things? What would you do if you won mega millions? Would you turn to Ed McMahon and say no thanks, I'm not interested - My five-figure salary will suffice for now. Can I get you something to drink Mr. McMahon? Would you say that winners of these lotteries have defied the odds? I think you would. Well then, ladies and gentlemen, Bridge Man and I have defied these minuscule odds - five times! No, we haven't won the lottery. Ed McMahon hasn't shown up at our door with a really big check and some balloons. Not yet anyway. I may already be a winner after all.
Let me explain.
The moment Bridge Man and I got engaged our names and addresses were instantaneously sold to wedding vendors across the globe who immediately took it upon themselves to mail us every pamphlet/brochure/magazine/coupon they could stuff into our mailbox. And those who were really lucky somehow managed to get a hold of my cell phone number. One of my personal favorites from this really lucky lot, is A*merican Presti*ge. They like to call and tell me how I've been randomly selected as the winner of a four-day, five-night vacation to the location of my choice. All I have to do is attend a presentation that night about Tupperware and pay my own airfare. That's all!
The first time I got this call, I listened to the nice ladies mantra before I graciously declined. The second, third, and fourth time they called to tell me that I was picked out of millions as the winner of this fantastic vacation package getaway I was at work and unable to answer the phone. They would call three and four times in a day because the day you are selected to win you must go in to see the Tupperware presentation that night or you are disqualified to receive the amazing prize. So you'd think that I'd be disqualified after the second or third or even the fourth go-round.
Oh, no. In fact, my name was miraculously chosen out of millions for the fifth time as the winner of this dream vacation. Only this time I answered the phone. And as I sat there silently listening to the nice lady tell me about this great prize, I wonder if I should stop her before she gets too deep into her script or if I should be polite and listen even though I already know my answer. I decide to forgo manners if for no reason other than to make her job easier. I interrupted her to very nicely decline. Why should I make her go through the entire five minute monologue when I already know that it's a waste of her time? Anyway, like I said, I was polite and said no thanks. To which she abruptly said, OK, and hung up. (Which makes me so glad I gave it so much thought.)
So I ask you, is there anything luckier than being randomly selected to win a dream getaway FIVE TIMES? I think not. Bridge Man and I must be some of the luckiest people in the world.
04 April 2008
Ten Fingers. Ten Toes.
It was inevitable. Everyone in my family has them. I was genetically destined to inherit the short, stubby fingers and the wide, fat feet of those who came before me. It was a running joke in the family. ‘Flintstone feet’ we called them. And as a five year-old child, I can remember wishing that my hands would someday develop into long, graceful fingers with perfectly shaped nails. But it was my feet that bothered me the most. They were so wide that they could only fit comfortably in shoes made for little boys, one size too big. You see, what my tootsies make up for in width, they lack in length. This nixed any capability I had to wear the jelly sandals I so coveted as a child.
Throughout my adolescence, I never failed to point out my distaste for the feet that I have been doomed to lug around. I would wrap them up tightly with strips of material in order to make them skinnier, or at the very least, prevent them from getting wider. When my mom noticed this for the first time she questioned me about the odd footwear I had donned. When I told her of my intentions I remember seeing a flicker of sadness flash in her eyes before she informed me I should be glad to have all my fingers and toes and then she went about her business. I couldn’t understand why I had made her sad. Why would anyone want to walk around with feet like mine?
In the summer of 2007, I flew out to visit some relatives from my mom’s side of the family in California. I spent five wonderful days there and on the last night we had a small get-together to spend my last night there as a group, as a family. We all sat around in the backyard, barefoot, soaking up the warm, California evening talking, laughing, crying, and simply spending some long overdue time with each other. While the conversations flowed, I sat silently for a moment to look at the special people around me. I looked for similarities in our features. The one thing we all had in common was our feet. This was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt a sense of pride for my fat, wide appendages.
The following November, my mom was hospitalized when the cancer that had seized the last two years of her life, took a turn for the worst. On one particularly late night, I sat next to her hospital bed holding her hand. It was just the two of us. Her temperature was high so she was covered her in a light-weight blanket. Her feet were uncovered, exposing a fresh pedicure and a simple anklet. My mind wandered from her respirations per minute to her physical features. We had the same chin, the same nose, the same hands, the same feet. And while she appeared thin and frail, her feet still had that short, wide shape that notoriously runs in our family.
It didn’t occur to me at that moment but now that I look back and continue to seek out anything to provoke memories of her and her life – movie ticket stubs, journals, jewelry – I’ve realized that one of the best things my mom left behind are the her traits. I’ve come to love the fact that she and I have the same nose, chin, and hands. I love the fact that we have the same Flintstone feet. She gave them to me. And I am reminded every day that a little piece of her lives on with me.
Throughout my adolescence, I never failed to point out my distaste for the feet that I have been doomed to lug around. I would wrap them up tightly with strips of material in order to make them skinnier, or at the very least, prevent them from getting wider. When my mom noticed this for the first time she questioned me about the odd footwear I had donned. When I told her of my intentions I remember seeing a flicker of sadness flash in her eyes before she informed me I should be glad to have all my fingers and toes and then she went about her business. I couldn’t understand why I had made her sad. Why would anyone want to walk around with feet like mine?
In the summer of 2007, I flew out to visit some relatives from my mom’s side of the family in California. I spent five wonderful days there and on the last night we had a small get-together to spend my last night there as a group, as a family. We all sat around in the backyard, barefoot, soaking up the warm, California evening talking, laughing, crying, and simply spending some long overdue time with each other. While the conversations flowed, I sat silently for a moment to look at the special people around me. I looked for similarities in our features. The one thing we all had in common was our feet. This was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt a sense of pride for my fat, wide appendages.
The following November, my mom was hospitalized when the cancer that had seized the last two years of her life, took a turn for the worst. On one particularly late night, I sat next to her hospital bed holding her hand. It was just the two of us. Her temperature was high so she was covered her in a light-weight blanket. Her feet were uncovered, exposing a fresh pedicure and a simple anklet. My mind wandered from her respirations per minute to her physical features. We had the same chin, the same nose, the same hands, the same feet. And while she appeared thin and frail, her feet still had that short, wide shape that notoriously runs in our family.
It didn’t occur to me at that moment but now that I look back and continue to seek out anything to provoke memories of her and her life – movie ticket stubs, journals, jewelry – I’ve realized that one of the best things my mom left behind are the her traits. I’ve come to love the fact that she and I have the same nose, chin, and hands. I love the fact that we have the same Flintstone feet. She gave them to me. And I am reminded every day that a little piece of her lives on with me.
02 April 2008
One hundred and thirty-one days
Last night Bridge Man and I finally booked our honeymoon. In exactly one hundred and thirty-one days, I will be basking in the sweet, sweet sights and sounds of Maui.
We'll be taking a bike tour on a volcano, tasting some native wine, and learning to surf. One hundred and thirty-one days and counting!
We'll be taking a bike tour on a volcano, tasting some native wine, and learning to surf. One hundred and thirty-one days and counting!
29 March 2008
Monkey See...
Have you seen this? I saw my first episode last night after catching bits of previews from last week that piqued my interest. Bridge Man and I sat in front of the TV and tapped away to see if his urge for nachos and my craving for jelly beans would go away with this acupuncture based technique.
First you tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap your left cheek bone.
Then you tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap your right collar bone.
Next you'll tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap the side of your hand.
Then you tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap the back of your hands.
And without moving your head, continue tapping the back of your hand while looking left.
Look right.
Now roll your eyes in a counter-clockwise fashion.
Now the other direction, all the while tapping the back of your hand.
Now hum your favorite tune.
(Don't forget to keep tapping.)
Count to five.
Hum again.
And you're done. That's it. You've just saved yourself from inevitable guilt caused by the face-feeding that was about to commence. You (Read: I) crave jelly beans no more. (Or maybe I ate the entire bag. Whatever.)
This morning, Bridge Man came to me:
BM: While I was getting ready to make breakfast I grabbed for the frozen waffles and then thought to myself, do I really want to eat these? So I tapped my face, I tapped my hand, I rolled my eyes, and I hummed a little ditty. When I was done, I thought again, do I really want these waffles? Am I really hungry?
X: And?
BM: Yep, I still want waffles.
First you tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap your left cheek bone.
Then you tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap your right collar bone.
Next you'll tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap the side of your hand.
Then you tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap the back of your hands.
And without moving your head, continue tapping the back of your hand while looking left.
Look right.
Now roll your eyes in a counter-clockwise fashion.
Now the other direction, all the while tapping the back of your hand.
Now hum your favorite tune.
(Don't forget to keep tapping.)
Count to five.
Hum again.
And you're done. That's it. You've just saved yourself from inevitable guilt caused by the face-feeding that was about to commence. You (Read: I) crave jelly beans no more. (Or maybe I ate the entire bag. Whatever.)
This morning, Bridge Man came to me:
BM: While I was getting ready to make breakfast I grabbed for the frozen waffles and then thought to myself, do I really want to eat these? So I tapped my face, I tapped my hand, I rolled my eyes, and I hummed a little ditty. When I was done, I thought again, do I really want these waffles? Am I really hungry?
X: And?
BM: Yep, I still want waffles.
25 March 2008
I've got a need.. a need for crafty type things
As my long time readers know, I am a crafter. I am a beader. I am a sewer. I am a maker. I've painted a picture or two. (Although they never end up displayed and often never see the light of day.) I've written a song. (Note: one song.) I like for people to notice an original item and ask where it comes from so I can step up on my proud little high horse and say, "Oh, I made that."
Does that make me sound smug? If it does, then please know that I haven't been able to be smug in a long time. Too long. How long has it been since I crafted, you say? One month? Two? Tres? The real, honest to goodness answer is that I don't know how long it's been. Do you feel bad for me yet?
Don't feel too bad because I've been living vicariously through the fabulous crafters on Design*Sponge who create beautiful dog beds from old suitcases, doily bowls, or knitted cozies. Their DIY section is full of things that make me want to hop into Red Betty (That's the name we gave my car after a trip to Baker's Square, but that story is for another time), drive to my local craft friendly store, and go berserk with the oodles and oodles of crafty-type items that are available.
I reccommend that take a look-see with caution. You may develop an irresistable urge to break out the materials needed to get your craft on. And I cannot be held accountable for missed appointments, abandoned children, or lost jobs.
Does that make me sound smug? If it does, then please know that I haven't been able to be smug in a long time. Too long. How long has it been since I crafted, you say? One month? Two? Tres? The real, honest to goodness answer is that I don't know how long it's been. Do you feel bad for me yet?
Don't feel too bad because I've been living vicariously through the fabulous crafters on Design*Sponge who create beautiful dog beds from old suitcases, doily bowls, or knitted cozies. Their DIY section is full of things that make me want to hop into Red Betty (That's the name we gave my car after a trip to Baker's Square, but that story is for another time), drive to my local craft friendly store, and go berserk with the oodles and oodles of crafty-type items that are available.
I reccommend that take a look-see with caution. You may develop an irresistable urge to break out the materials needed to get your craft on. And I cannot be held accountable for missed appointments, abandoned children, or lost jobs.
18 March 2008
Twenty-Something; The Learning Years
This is something that I've been hearing a lot about lately. Supposedly, when I turn 30 I will look back on the last decade of my life and say, "Hot dog! Glad that's over. Now I can move on to the living years of my life." I will have made all of my mistakes. I will have learned all there will be to learn. The time will have finally come to pass down my wisdom to the next generation and hope that they are able to learn in order to become successful thirty-somethings.
For those of you who don't know, I'm closer to thirty than I care to admit. Not close enough to panic quite yet, but close enough for me to pop a few Tum*s to ease the discomfort. (Just to clear the air: I do not believe that 30 is old. I'm talking mile-markers here people.) Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I've met my learning quota per my years as a twenty-something. Or if I've surpassed those in my age bracket and therefore qualify as an honorary thirty-something. (How fabulous would that be?)
I may be a twenty-something with some experiences under my belt, but a buffoon I am not. I am able to admit that I do not have knowledge beyond my years. (Well, I may have some knowledge.) But, generally speaking I'm right where I should be.
I think.
Who am I kidding. I have no idea. I could go back and forth on this all day long.
Case in point:
While a twenty-something, I have learned...
For those of you who don't know, I'm closer to thirty than I care to admit. Not close enough to panic quite yet, but close enough for me to pop a few Tum*s to ease the discomfort. (Just to clear the air: I do not believe that 30 is old. I'm talking mile-markers here people.) Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I've met my learning quota per my years as a twenty-something. Or if I've surpassed those in my age bracket and therefore qualify as an honorary thirty-something. (How fabulous would that be?)
I may be a twenty-something with some experiences under my belt, but a buffoon I am not. I am able to admit that I do not have knowledge beyond my years. (Well, I may have some knowledge.) But, generally speaking I'm right where I should be.
I think.
Who am I kidding. I have no idea. I could go back and forth on this all day long.
Case in point:
While a twenty-something, I have learned...
- How much of a nincompoop I was in my teen years.
- That while young and unattached (not including Bridge Man) and have the opportunity to reinvent myself. I am not defined by my degree or my career.
- I'm not too young to have gray hair.
While a twenty-something, I have failed to learn...
- That I don't have to know all of the answers right now. One mistake won't damage me for life.
- How to politely dispose of all the negative people in my life.
- How much of a nincompoop I really am.
Here's hoping that I am able to learn these things, and maybe put them to use so I can successfully graduate into my thirties without making a complete fool of myself. I still have a few good years as a twenty-something left.
16 March 2008
What I Love About Spring; A Photo Tribute
Yes, I understand that it's not technically spring yet. (Four days and counting!) But it's the little signs that indicate a warmer, happier time for all to enjoy.
15 March 2008
Mumbo-jumbo
So I know I've been slightly M.I.A. lately. There are no excuses. And I'll understand if you've moved on to a more entertaining and kept up blog. You see, for me there is this process. A process that includes inspiration, research, revision after revision, and finally a finished product. Unfortunately, there are times when I don't get to that final stage, that finshed product. There are times when my blogs, my words get nothing more than saved as a draft in some folder up on a shelf in internet land. There are various reasons for this. Maybe it's because what I wrote was too personal/contriversial/rediculous. Maybe I realize that I've rambled on for days about the Freudian explination for my absurd fear of feet and I understand that there is the possibility you may not care to know that mine resemble those of Fred Flintstone.
I'm trying to work on this. (The writing thing not the feet thing.)
My goal is to be a better writer. Less for professional reasons than the sheer fact that I enjoy the process. And I know that, in order to become a better writer I should be writing every day, through the night, and in my dreams. I should be writing simple paragraphs, letters, songs- a haiku if I so desire.
And so my dear readers, (all two of you), this is my solem oath to be a bettter blogger. To write more. To share every insignificant notion that pops into my head. (OK, maybe not every notion.) And if what I write is a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, that's OK. Because it's all just a part of the process.
You'll still come visit after I post the lyrics to the song I wrote in the 7th grade about the boy that I was, like, totally crushing on, right?
I'm trying to work on this. (The writing thing not the feet thing.)
My goal is to be a better writer. Less for professional reasons than the sheer fact that I enjoy the process. And I know that, in order to become a better writer I should be writing every day, through the night, and in my dreams. I should be writing simple paragraphs, letters, songs- a haiku if I so desire.
And so my dear readers, (all two of you), this is my solem oath to be a bettter blogger. To write more. To share every insignificant notion that pops into my head. (OK, maybe not every notion.) And if what I write is a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, that's OK. Because it's all just a part of the process.
You'll still come visit after I post the lyrics to the song I wrote in the 7th grade about the boy that I was, like, totally crushing on, right?
09 March 2008
Conversations with Bridge Man
BM: Tomorrow's Sunday. Do you know what that means?
X: Uhhhh... bacon?
BM: Bacon!
(pause)
BM: And Meet the Press!
X: Uhhhh... bacon?
BM: Bacon!
(pause)
BM: And Meet the Press!
02 March 2008
What's in a name?
I've been thinking a lot lately about last names and the importance they hold for some people. Traditionally, you are born, assigned a surname, and that is what you live with for the next few decades. That is, of course, until you are wed and take the name of your significant other or randomly decide to change it because you find the name "Banana Hammock" too hilarious to pass up.
My story is a little different. I can still remember that day when my mama taught me and Bear how to spell our new last name while we waited in the terminal for our flight to Okinawa. I was a mere four years old. I had no idea what was going on. For all I knew, people changed their names every couple of years or so for... security reasons or something like that.
It wasn't until we moved back to the states that I realized that this last name thing was going to be a problem. You see, while I had grown accustomed to my new last name, it was never legally changed. On on the first day of the fourth grade they called out my old name I raised my hand and mumbled, "here," and then, when no one would notice, I would head up to the teachers desk to ask her to refer to me by my new name. And every August, I continued this ritual all the way through my senior year of high school.
I knew that my new name wasn't legal. I simply had no desire to walk around sporting the old one. The whole dead-beat-dad thing, but I won't delve into that until we know each other a little better. When I was in junior high, people started to notice that I would, each year, change the last name that I was to go by and they started asking questions. And while I knew the real reason I would play dumb and blame the continued "mistake" on the faculty and staff of the school. Such an elaborate (moronic) facade.
Post high school, I let the whole thing go. College professors didn't get to know their students well enough, or care enough to remember the girl with two last names; one real and one fake. My friends and family still called me by my new name. But any real conversation/application/etc brought me out of my fantasy surname world. Eventually I caved and accepted my fate, the fate of the last name that I had been hiding from for years. I asked friends, family, and, yes, even Bridge Man to use my old last name. People thought it was strange at first but everyone is now used to it.
So after all of that, you'd think that I would jump at the opportunity to change my last name. But now, as this wedding comes closer I've started to rethink the whole deal. Don't get me wrong, I still despise where the name originates. But it is still my name. Yes, I buried it under the new name for so many years. But I always knew it was there. Yes, I hated it because of how much it segregated Bear and me from the family. No one in our family has our last name. But now, instead of it being a source of segregation, it brings me and Bear (and now my nephew) closer than ever. I can't help but feel that the moment I become Mrs. Bridge Man I will have lost that connection.
This fear, I'll admit, is ridiculous. A last name doesn't define who a person is. But, if that is true, why are there people who fight to keep their original surname? Why are there people who judge those who don't change their last name after marriage? If this isn't a big deal... then what's the big deal?
My story is a little different. I can still remember that day when my mama taught me and Bear how to spell our new last name while we waited in the terminal for our flight to Okinawa. I was a mere four years old. I had no idea what was going on. For all I knew, people changed their names every couple of years or so for... security reasons or something like that.
It wasn't until we moved back to the states that I realized that this last name thing was going to be a problem. You see, while I had grown accustomed to my new last name, it was never legally changed. On on the first day of the fourth grade they called out my old name I raised my hand and mumbled, "here," and then, when no one would notice, I would head up to the teachers desk to ask her to refer to me by my new name. And every August, I continued this ritual all the way through my senior year of high school.
I knew that my new name wasn't legal. I simply had no desire to walk around sporting the old one. The whole dead-beat-dad thing, but I won't delve into that until we know each other a little better. When I was in junior high, people started to notice that I would, each year, change the last name that I was to go by and they started asking questions. And while I knew the real reason I would play dumb and blame the continued "mistake" on the faculty and staff of the school. Such an elaborate (moronic) facade.
Post high school, I let the whole thing go. College professors didn't get to know their students well enough, or care enough to remember the girl with two last names; one real and one fake. My friends and family still called me by my new name. But any real conversation/application/etc brought me out of my fantasy surname world. Eventually I caved and accepted my fate, the fate of the last name that I had been hiding from for years. I asked friends, family, and, yes, even Bridge Man to use my old last name. People thought it was strange at first but everyone is now used to it.
So after all of that, you'd think that I would jump at the opportunity to change my last name. But now, as this wedding comes closer I've started to rethink the whole deal. Don't get me wrong, I still despise where the name originates. But it is still my name. Yes, I buried it under the new name for so many years. But I always knew it was there. Yes, I hated it because of how much it segregated Bear and me from the family. No one in our family has our last name. But now, instead of it being a source of segregation, it brings me and Bear (and now my nephew) closer than ever. I can't help but feel that the moment I become Mrs. Bridge Man I will have lost that connection.
This fear, I'll admit, is ridiculous. A last name doesn't define who a person is. But, if that is true, why are there people who fight to keep their original surname? Why are there people who judge those who don't change their last name after marriage? If this isn't a big deal... then what's the big deal?
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