Maybe it’s the oppressive weight of the air here that creates my need for simplicity. I hate cozy. There is already too much cozy in the heat and humidity. This house feels barren and uninhabited and it’s so dark outside.
I want to go back to the light air, where we were so close to the sun. Where cozy felt like it is supposed to.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Monday, October 29, 2012
Rock House
Irregular shaped orange rocks and a big concrete porch with rock pillars on each side of the steps where I punched Gail in the stomach because my brother dared me to. Towering coniferous tress on each side produced blue berries we knew not to eat. Instead we pelted each other with them.
In the side-yard there was a tree-house and a tractor-tire sand box and a swing set where we swung until the legs of the frame came off the ground. I just knew if we jumped, we’d fly out into the traffic of Old Cavern Highway.
Mom said I was born there and I took that literally. I was much older when she laughed at me and said she only meant that we lived there when I was born. That was the first time we lived there.
The whole house was paneled with orange tinted wood, chipped white in places where nails had been driven and removed. There was no hallway to take you through the house. Just one bedroom connected to another. Both rooms scary for the doors that opened off of them.
The back door opened off the back bedroom onto the covered driveway, where you could see the rock shed that matched the house. During the day, I felt quite fancy with the covered driveway, as though a chauffeur might let us out there and then go to park the car.
But the back door changed in the middle of the night. It was a different door altogether when the window turned to a pitch black mirror. The boogey man stood on the other side and watched me through the glass, even on nights that we didn’t tell each other scary stories like “Bloody Bones and Dirty Diapers.” I tried so hard to stay awake, certain that if I closed my eyes he’d begin to turn the knob. Slowly.
The front bedroom had a door to the basement. A windowless box of plastered white walls. Someone had written the word love in red lipstick on the far wall. They wrote it so small that from the stairs it looked like bloody teeth marks on the wall.
Mom put our toys down there, to make it our play room. There were no windows, so I’m not sure why it mattered, but during the day the toys were just barely worth playing down there. As long as we didn’t turn our back on the red smudges. At night, no thanks.
Also attached to the first bedroom, but not scary at all, was the only bathroom. My cousin would literally be born in that room a few years later. One night my aunt got up to go to the bathroom and had Jody.
Mom put the black couches in the dining room, where the big velvet painting of the matador hung. That was where we goaded my little cousin, Heather, into saying smart aleck things like “nunya beeswax,” and then complained that she never got in trouble.
The second time we lived in that house my parents were separated. I know I made a big deal about missing my daddy. I wanted to buy a Trans-Am, like the one in Smokey and the Bandit, and go find him. But now I see it as an illustrious time in my memory. We lived in the sacred house of my birth and Mom had lightness to her then, like the bounce in the loose curls from her hot rollers. My beautiful mother and her sister lived together, picking up shifts at the Stardust and dating men who drove sports cars.
Until we moved to North Dakota, where my dad had gone to find work. I hope it wasn’t my obsession with Trans-Ams and my daddy that drove her to that wasteland. How could I have known?
We came back to the rock house from North Dakota, a family intact. We stayed there with my aunt until we found a rent house next door to my uncle. The house was still the same. The same step-stool chair with the vinyl covered flip-up seat by the side door off the kitchen. I still had my grandmother’s phone number memorized. The braided oval rope rug was still in the living room floor.
Other things had changed. My aunt Connie died while we were gone. She drowned in a flash flood. I can’t describe what that looked like in my five-year-old imagination. It would be disrespectful to her children to put words to it. Suffice to say it was a horror in my mind. My mother loved her.
And even worse, the replacement aunt was cool and aloof. I’m sure I knew this aunt before the move. I know I remember my cousin, her daughter, and how she used to say “oyoyoyoyoyoyoy” over and over again. We thought she was pretty funny. But my corner-stone memory of the replacement aunt was seeing her open the door of her trailer house when we came back to Carlsbad. She stood there dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, all irritated and constipated looking. I could feel my mother’s disapproval, could feel her upper lip stiffen, saw her eyes widen. She still feels like a replacement aunt, like any minute she’ll just flounce away in a pouty huff.
I don’t know where we lived when I ran away from Pate Elementary in third grade, somewhere in Carlsbad. In second grade, I was diagnosed as a “gifted child.” In third, I couldn’t keep up. Mrs. Kartoonen knew my dad when he was a kid. Among other acts of harassment, I think he may have once asked her who dumped popcorn down the back of her pants. Maybe she was taking this out on me. Maybe she wasn’t.
She slammed my math book closed on my last math problem, and told me “I said take out your Mad Minute.” And I said, “Get off my case...” with equal parts frustration and hope that I would get a laugh out of my dad, make a name for myself as a smart-ass Baker. I didn’t get to finish the rhyme, “...toilet face.” before she clamped her hand over my mouth and drug me out into the hall.
She left me alone out there and I was so mad, so frustrated, that I just walked out the door. I crossed National Parks Highway and went to the tree-house in the side-yard of the rock house. I guess I was waiting for my aunt to come home. My mom’s sister, my second mother. I was so pissed off I forgot she didn’t live there anymore. It wasn’t our house. Strangers lived there.
I also thought my mother would be happy to see me when she finally drove up. She wasn’t. She took me back to the principal’s office. I heard my dad’s footsteps behind me when he came in the door. Until that moment, I sort of thought he would be proud of me for standing up to Mrs. Kartoonen. He wasn’t. He blistered my ass later. But not before my mother laid it out for the principal. Mom didn’t care how that teacher felt about my daddy, that woman was not going to mistreat my mother's kid.
By the end of the year, I truly believed Mrs. Kartoonen liked me. She was a real pro. They just don’t make teachers like that anymore.
In the side-yard there was a tree-house and a tractor-tire sand box and a swing set where we swung until the legs of the frame came off the ground. I just knew if we jumped, we’d fly out into the traffic of Old Cavern Highway.
Mom said I was born there and I took that literally. I was much older when she laughed at me and said she only meant that we lived there when I was born. That was the first time we lived there.
The whole house was paneled with orange tinted wood, chipped white in places where nails had been driven and removed. There was no hallway to take you through the house. Just one bedroom connected to another. Both rooms scary for the doors that opened off of them.
The back door opened off the back bedroom onto the covered driveway, where you could see the rock shed that matched the house. During the day, I felt quite fancy with the covered driveway, as though a chauffeur might let us out there and then go to park the car.
But the back door changed in the middle of the night. It was a different door altogether when the window turned to a pitch black mirror. The boogey man stood on the other side and watched me through the glass, even on nights that we didn’t tell each other scary stories like “Bloody Bones and Dirty Diapers.” I tried so hard to stay awake, certain that if I closed my eyes he’d begin to turn the knob. Slowly.
The front bedroom had a door to the basement. A windowless box of plastered white walls. Someone had written the word love in red lipstick on the far wall. They wrote it so small that from the stairs it looked like bloody teeth marks on the wall.
Mom put our toys down there, to make it our play room. There were no windows, so I’m not sure why it mattered, but during the day the toys were just barely worth playing down there. As long as we didn’t turn our back on the red smudges. At night, no thanks.
Also attached to the first bedroom, but not scary at all, was the only bathroom. My cousin would literally be born in that room a few years later. One night my aunt got up to go to the bathroom and had Jody.
Mom put the black couches in the dining room, where the big velvet painting of the matador hung. That was where we goaded my little cousin, Heather, into saying smart aleck things like “nunya beeswax,” and then complained that she never got in trouble.
The second time we lived in that house my parents were separated. I know I made a big deal about missing my daddy. I wanted to buy a Trans-Am, like the one in Smokey and the Bandit, and go find him. But now I see it as an illustrious time in my memory. We lived in the sacred house of my birth and Mom had lightness to her then, like the bounce in the loose curls from her hot rollers. My beautiful mother and her sister lived together, picking up shifts at the Stardust and dating men who drove sports cars.
Until we moved to North Dakota, where my dad had gone to find work. I hope it wasn’t my obsession with Trans-Ams and my daddy that drove her to that wasteland. How could I have known?
We came back to the rock house from North Dakota, a family intact. We stayed there with my aunt until we found a rent house next door to my uncle. The house was still the same. The same step-stool chair with the vinyl covered flip-up seat by the side door off the kitchen. I still had my grandmother’s phone number memorized. The braided oval rope rug was still in the living room floor.
Other things had changed. My aunt Connie died while we were gone. She drowned in a flash flood. I can’t describe what that looked like in my five-year-old imagination. It would be disrespectful to her children to put words to it. Suffice to say it was a horror in my mind. My mother loved her.
And even worse, the replacement aunt was cool and aloof. I’m sure I knew this aunt before the move. I know I remember my cousin, her daughter, and how she used to say “oyoyoyoyoyoyoy” over and over again. We thought she was pretty funny. But my corner-stone memory of the replacement aunt was seeing her open the door of her trailer house when we came back to Carlsbad. She stood there dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, all irritated and constipated looking. I could feel my mother’s disapproval, could feel her upper lip stiffen, saw her eyes widen. She still feels like a replacement aunt, like any minute she’ll just flounce away in a pouty huff.
I don’t know where we lived when I ran away from Pate Elementary in third grade, somewhere in Carlsbad. In second grade, I was diagnosed as a “gifted child.” In third, I couldn’t keep up. Mrs. Kartoonen knew my dad when he was a kid. Among other acts of harassment, I think he may have once asked her who dumped popcorn down the back of her pants. Maybe she was taking this out on me. Maybe she wasn’t.
She slammed my math book closed on my last math problem, and told me “I said take out your Mad Minute.” And I said, “Get off my case...” with equal parts frustration and hope that I would get a laugh out of my dad, make a name for myself as a smart-ass Baker. I didn’t get to finish the rhyme, “...toilet face.” before she clamped her hand over my mouth and drug me out into the hall.
She left me alone out there and I was so mad, so frustrated, that I just walked out the door. I crossed National Parks Highway and went to the tree-house in the side-yard of the rock house. I guess I was waiting for my aunt to come home. My mom’s sister, my second mother. I was so pissed off I forgot she didn’t live there anymore. It wasn’t our house. Strangers lived there.
I also thought my mother would be happy to see me when she finally drove up. She wasn’t. She took me back to the principal’s office. I heard my dad’s footsteps behind me when he came in the door. Until that moment, I sort of thought he would be proud of me for standing up to Mrs. Kartoonen. He wasn’t. He blistered my ass later. But not before my mother laid it out for the principal. Mom didn’t care how that teacher felt about my daddy, that woman was not going to mistreat my mother's kid.
By the end of the year, I truly believed Mrs. Kartoonen liked me. She was a real pro. They just don’t make teachers like that anymore.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Ain't Sorry It Broke
I'm not sorry the air conditioner quit. I might be later, if it isn’t fixed before the weather warms up again. But having the windows open is a nice change. The wind is blowing in swooshy waves. I could even close my eyes and pretend it’s the ocean. If I open them and look outside, the cactus infested wilderness out back is shamrock green. And the temperature is cool enough that the humidity isn’t making me insane. I have always hated humidity, being from the desert. But now I’m thinking maybe the humidity might keep my zombie face from looking so much like craggy sandstone.
The TV is off, the house isn’t completely disgusting, and I’m still in my pajamas, revising chapter six of Reconstruction. I actually split chapter 6 and put part of it at the end of chapter 5, thinking maybe if I hide that part there, it won’t scream so loudly to be cleaned up. But that is another blog post altogether.
And of course if I’m revising, I’m also procrastinating, which means I’m writing blogs, reading blogs, scrolling through Twitter finding more blogs to subscribe to, and staring out the window thinking of all of the things I could blog about. Then I check Facebook, and Authonomy and Youwriteon, then back to the blog reader, email, other email, Facebook, Twitter, and around it goes, until I come across Thesaurus.com opened in a window, and I remember that I was actually stuck on word choice in Chapter 6.
It is a perfectly ordinary and relaxing Sunday afternoon, made extraordinary by open windows and a breeze.
The TV is off, the house isn’t completely disgusting, and I’m still in my pajamas, revising chapter six of Reconstruction. I actually split chapter 6 and put part of it at the end of chapter 5, thinking maybe if I hide that part there, it won’t scream so loudly to be cleaned up. But that is another blog post altogether.
And of course if I’m revising, I’m also procrastinating, which means I’m writing blogs, reading blogs, scrolling through Twitter finding more blogs to subscribe to, and staring out the window thinking of all of the things I could blog about. Then I check Facebook, and Authonomy and Youwriteon, then back to the blog reader, email, other email, Facebook, Twitter, and around it goes, until I come across Thesaurus.com opened in a window, and I remember that I was actually stuck on word choice in Chapter 6.
It is a perfectly ordinary and relaxing Sunday afternoon, made extraordinary by open windows and a breeze.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
What Do You Like To Read?
I started thinking about publishing a novel just as the shift in the publishing industry began. Back then, the mid-list to which I aspired was shrinking and self-publishing was still taboo. The traditional publishing machine claimed that only those novels guaranteed to strike gold could make it through the gate-keepers because publishing houses could no longer afford to foster new or average selling authors. And I get that. Business is business.
But when I got over being a disappointed writer, I went back to being a reader, and I found myself disappointed there too. Am I alone in this? I have no interest in celebrity memoirs. I must be the only person not buying them. I know vampires and paranormal romances are everywhere you look. Dystopian, post-apocalyptic stories with zombies and teen angst are apparently the essential elements that catch the attention of an agent or publisher. But they don’t always catch my attention.
Oh, I’ve bought a few of them. Every once in a while I start thinking that I’m missing something, or the the hook really hooks me. But for the most part, I don't finish them. Not the memoirs, not the YA zombie romance. In fact, without strong recommendations from friends, I might have missed out on Hunger Games altogether because sometimes I get dystopian YA fatigue and I want something else.
I guess my reading tastes largely depend on what’s going on in my life. Two months ago, I wanted to read about rocky mother-daughter relationships and women who fought to overcome some adversity and found they were weaker and compromised for doing it. I would have turned up my nose at a happy ending.
Right now, I want to read a book about people whose dreams come true. I want to read about the rock band that makes it big. The writer whose book gets published and turned into a movie. I want to read about the model discovered while shopping in the mall. The girl who gets the guy.
I don’t care if those stories aren’t popular right now. Honestly, I don’t really care about typos or even unsophisticated use of language. I’m looking for the escape of a story that entertains me and gives me some satisfaction that I may or may not get in my real life. But I still want to be able to relate to some of the things I read. And my real life doesn’t involve being a hot teenager, or zombies.
I am so grateful for this shift in publishing. I’m grateful to goodreads.com and all of the writers on sites like authonomy.com and youwriteon.com. Now I have a better chance of finding something to read in a few minutes than I ever did after spending hours in a book store.
And thank you Amazon. Now I can wade through pages and pages of books to find something I like rather than have my tastes dictated to me, or worse, just lose the desire to read altogether.
My questions for anyone reading this:
• What do you want to read?
• Do you have a hard time finding good books?
But when I got over being a disappointed writer, I went back to being a reader, and I found myself disappointed there too. Am I alone in this? I have no interest in celebrity memoirs. I must be the only person not buying them. I know vampires and paranormal romances are everywhere you look. Dystopian, post-apocalyptic stories with zombies and teen angst are apparently the essential elements that catch the attention of an agent or publisher. But they don’t always catch my attention.
Oh, I’ve bought a few of them. Every once in a while I start thinking that I’m missing something, or the the hook really hooks me. But for the most part, I don't finish them. Not the memoirs, not the YA zombie romance. In fact, without strong recommendations from friends, I might have missed out on Hunger Games altogether because sometimes I get dystopian YA fatigue and I want something else.
I guess my reading tastes largely depend on what’s going on in my life. Two months ago, I wanted to read about rocky mother-daughter relationships and women who fought to overcome some adversity and found they were weaker and compromised for doing it. I would have turned up my nose at a happy ending.
Right now, I want to read a book about people whose dreams come true. I want to read about the rock band that makes it big. The writer whose book gets published and turned into a movie. I want to read about the model discovered while shopping in the mall. The girl who gets the guy.
I don’t care if those stories aren’t popular right now. Honestly, I don’t really care about typos or even unsophisticated use of language. I’m looking for the escape of a story that entertains me and gives me some satisfaction that I may or may not get in my real life. But I still want to be able to relate to some of the things I read. And my real life doesn’t involve being a hot teenager, or zombies.
I am so grateful for this shift in publishing. I’m grateful to goodreads.com and all of the writers on sites like authonomy.com and youwriteon.com. Now I have a better chance of finding something to read in a few minutes than I ever did after spending hours in a book store.
And thank you Amazon. Now I can wade through pages and pages of books to find something I like rather than have my tastes dictated to me, or worse, just lose the desire to read altogether.
My questions for anyone reading this:
• What do you want to read?
• Do you have a hard time finding good books?
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Zombified Version of My Old Self
So this is what it’s like? I mean, I knew I was getting old. I’ll be 40 in a few years. And I have gray hair that I don’t have time to keep covered. But I’ve always just joked about it and blamed my kids.
Besides, in my lifetime, I would estimate an 80 to 20 ratio of days that I hate the way I look to days that I’m not that worried about it. This is to say that vanity hasn’t been a real concern for me. In fact I’ve said more than once that being cute isn’t my specialty. I always wanted to be the smart one, yes I know… aka the annoying know-it-all. Well I had to be that. I grew up with five female cousins living across the street from me. They all had their own brand of beauty, but I was the too-tall skinny mousy one. Vanity, not a luxury in which I’ve ever dared to indulge. I didn’t think.
But starting this new job has somehow brought my age into focus. And not just because a co-worker made a joke about it, or because my boss looked at my gray hair and then called me “young lady.” (In fairness to him, I might have imagined that.) But it suddenly got real driving home that first day when I pulled down the vanity mirror in my car. What I saw looked like someone used the Age My Face app on me. And since that moment, I have been walking around painfully embarrassed for anyone to look at me when I look like this.
I’m still hoping it’s just stress and exhaustion from the job change. Evidence in support of that hope: I’ve been getting up early, commuting an hour each way, and spending all day trying to accomplish work in a place where I can’t do a single thing by myself without needing to ask a dozen questions. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn like crazy from being wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
The alternative to blaming the new job is to believe that I really do look like a slightly zombified version of my old self, and that I have all along. And if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could have gotten treatment sooner. (And, oh yes, I will get treatment… if I can afford it.)
Or maybe, two weeks ago, I didn’t care. And maybe, by tomorrow, I’ll be over this insecurity. That would be a lot less expensive. And, really, being cute isn’t something I’ve ever been good at. So what if I’m not just plain, but old too? I mean, if I can’t be Halle Berry, what’s the point?
Of course, the next blog post will be over my insecurities about my intelligence and then probably there will be another one over my social skills. There is always material for introspection there. This new job is making me take a hard look at myself from a lot of different angles. And I guess that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It might be painful, but it’ll probably be healthy in the end.
Besides, in my lifetime, I would estimate an 80 to 20 ratio of days that I hate the way I look to days that I’m not that worried about it. This is to say that vanity hasn’t been a real concern for me. In fact I’ve said more than once that being cute isn’t my specialty. I always wanted to be the smart one, yes I know… aka the annoying know-it-all. Well I had to be that. I grew up with five female cousins living across the street from me. They all had their own brand of beauty, but I was the too-tall skinny mousy one. Vanity, not a luxury in which I’ve ever dared to indulge. I didn’t think.
But starting this new job has somehow brought my age into focus. And not just because a co-worker made a joke about it, or because my boss looked at my gray hair and then called me “young lady.” (In fairness to him, I might have imagined that.) But it suddenly got real driving home that first day when I pulled down the vanity mirror in my car. What I saw looked like someone used the Age My Face app on me. And since that moment, I have been walking around painfully embarrassed for anyone to look at me when I look like this.
I’m still hoping it’s just stress and exhaustion from the job change. Evidence in support of that hope: I’ve been getting up early, commuting an hour each way, and spending all day trying to accomplish work in a place where I can’t do a single thing by myself without needing to ask a dozen questions. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn like crazy from being wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
The alternative to blaming the new job is to believe that I really do look like a slightly zombified version of my old self, and that I have all along. And if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could have gotten treatment sooner. (And, oh yes, I will get treatment… if I can afford it.)
Or maybe, two weeks ago, I didn’t care. And maybe, by tomorrow, I’ll be over this insecurity. That would be a lot less expensive. And, really, being cute isn’t something I’ve ever been good at. So what if I’m not just plain, but old too? I mean, if I can’t be Halle Berry, what’s the point?
Of course, the next blog post will be over my insecurities about my intelligence and then probably there will be another one over my social skills. There is always material for introspection there. This new job is making me take a hard look at myself from a lot of different angles. And I guess that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It might be painful, but it’ll probably be healthy in the end.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Glitter Band Aid
I just looked up and saw a picture of Jordan in its frame. This picture, a Christmas picture, was taken while she was in daycare, when she was about three years old. She’s holding a fake present and her wispy little-girl hair is up in the ponytail that I kept on top of her head. You see I was adamant that she would not have bangs. That was very important to me at the time. Who even knows why? Some childhood anger I had at my mom for cutting my own bangs, maybe?
Apparently what wasn’t important to me was to get the ponytail straight, or to get all of her hair into it. Or maybe, the pictures were taken after she had been at daycare for a while, and some Baylor student/daycare-teacher had redone her hair. A college co-ed who wouldn’t put the same love and care into my child’s ponytail as I would. How could she understand that 15 years later, I’d still be looking at that picture, when it would remind me of just how much we have changed, and accomplished, in this long strange trip.
But the truth is, I probably wouldn’t have put much more effort into her hair than that Baylor student. Because, I was probably younger than that student at the time. I probably didn’t understand the lasting importance of that picture any more than she did. And, honestly, I couldn’t get that wispy hair to stay put, no matter how hard I tried. I didn’t learn about gel and hair-wax until the gymnastics years.
But the real reason I know I wouldn’t have been so particular with her hair is because the thing that caught my eye about that picture just now is the glittery band aid that I used to hold it in place in the frame. I guess I was out of tape. Well the band aid didn’t hold up. Fifteen years later, the picture, and the band aid, have both slipped.
A band aid? What in the world was I thinking? I was just a kid, and a late bloomer at that. Just making do. It’s a miracle we survived at all. But we did. And I have to say, we both turned out to be very creative problem solvers.
I guess I need to replace that band aid and fix that picture at some point. But first, I’m going to take a digital picture of it. Because, in fifteen years, I might look back on this day and wonder what in the world I was thinking, “fixing” something that was just fine as it was, an artifact that tells a much truer story than the staged Christmas scene in the actual picture.
Apparently what wasn’t important to me was to get the ponytail straight, or to get all of her hair into it. Or maybe, the pictures were taken after she had been at daycare for a while, and some Baylor student/daycare-teacher had redone her hair. A college co-ed who wouldn’t put the same love and care into my child’s ponytail as I would. How could she understand that 15 years later, I’d still be looking at that picture, when it would remind me of just how much we have changed, and accomplished, in this long strange trip.
But the truth is, I probably wouldn’t have put much more effort into her hair than that Baylor student. Because, I was probably younger than that student at the time. I probably didn’t understand the lasting importance of that picture any more than she did. And, honestly, I couldn’t get that wispy hair to stay put, no matter how hard I tried. I didn’t learn about gel and hair-wax until the gymnastics years.
But the real reason I know I wouldn’t have been so particular with her hair is because the thing that caught my eye about that picture just now is the glittery band aid that I used to hold it in place in the frame. I guess I was out of tape. Well the band aid didn’t hold up. Fifteen years later, the picture, and the band aid, have both slipped.
A band aid? What in the world was I thinking? I was just a kid, and a late bloomer at that. Just making do. It’s a miracle we survived at all. But we did. And I have to say, we both turned out to be very creative problem solvers.
I guess I need to replace that band aid and fix that picture at some point. But first, I’m going to take a digital picture of it. Because, in fifteen years, I might look back on this day and wonder what in the world I was thinking, “fixing” something that was just fine as it was, an artifact that tells a much truer story than the staged Christmas scene in the actual picture.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wireless = Chicken Foot
Wireless networking is enough to drive a person to superstition. It never fails that I have a board room full of people and the computer screen projected on a wall when someone decides at the last minute that they need a document off the network. Should be no problem, especially for someone who has as much experience and knowledge as I have with networking. I mean I truly, fully, graphically understand how wireless is supposed to work.
But for some reason, only in board meetings, I cannot connect. And with the whole world watching, I cannot run to the my office to troubleshoot. So I am powerless.
And that is where the superstition comes in. What did I do wrong? Was I wearing these shoes the last time this happened? Is it because I don’t have on my lucky bracelet? OOOOH That is blasphemy. That is why I’m being punished. Or, did my mind wander during invocation? Am I even being punished? Am I supposed to learn something from this humiliation? Why did I choose this field? Why was I ever born? What is the meaning of life?
Honestly, at times like this, if you told me that waving a chicken foot over that laptop would fix it, I would be terribly tempted to try it.
You see?
Wireless = Chicken Foot
But for some reason, only in board meetings, I cannot connect. And with the whole world watching, I cannot run to the my office to troubleshoot. So I am powerless.
And that is where the superstition comes in. What did I do wrong? Was I wearing these shoes the last time this happened? Is it because I don’t have on my lucky bracelet? OOOOH That is blasphemy. That is why I’m being punished. Or, did my mind wander during invocation? Am I even being punished? Am I supposed to learn something from this humiliation? Why did I choose this field? Why was I ever born? What is the meaning of life?
Honestly, at times like this, if you told me that waving a chicken foot over that laptop would fix it, I would be terribly tempted to try it.
You see?
Wireless = Chicken Foot
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Good, Bad and OMG!
Who am I? Okay, I know the answer to that. I spend a lot of time thinking about who I want to be, and a lot of time taking actions that move me in that direction. So why the question: Who am I? A phone call from an old friend reminded me of the decisions I made back when we were close. It reminded me of the way I thought at that time and what I thought was important.
When I look at my life in its entirety, it’s dizzying. I’m sure this can’t be healthy, because when I think back to the person I was, I cannot reconcile that person with the person I am now. And how I came to be here, at this age, in this life, with these people is bizarre to me. I imagine an amnesiac coming home from the hospital after a head injury trying to remember the threads and stories tied to the people and places and things in her life.
In this present tense, I am a relatively content, self-sufficient human being. Hopefully I give more to society than I take. I am a reluctant leader. I don’t trust myself, but a lot of people depend on me for a lot of things and I do everything I can to keep from letting them down. I believe in doing what’s right, even when it’s inconvenient, even if it’s difficult, even if it costs you personally. That is the easy part. Figuring out what is right is the most difficult. Finding it buried under all of the “I wants” and “I don’t wants” is a chore.
I know that sometimes you have to speak up and lead. And sometimes you have to shut up and follow. And usually, when you most need to do one of these, it’s when you really don’t want to.
I don’t believe in zero-sum solutions. I don’t believe that if I’m smart, you must be stupid. I don’t believe that if you’re successful, I’m a failure. And I don’t think that there is a prize for identifying the shortcomings of others. I have learned that there is no us vs. them. I like people. I like win-win solutions and the creative process that finds them.
I like quiet enjoyment. I’m not a thrill seeker. And if you saw me screaming on those roller-coasters last Sunday, well, inside, I was quietly enjoying the view. Raising my hands and marveling at the sensation. Melding myself into the turns and rolls, smoothing them out. And if you were there and you thought my screams had a note of falsehood, they did. When I yelled out, it was calculated. I decided to do it to see how it would feel.
I have a collection of amazing people in my life. They make me better at being a human.
I believe that human touch has healing powers.
I am a hard person. I speak harshly. I am intolerant of many things, like mediocrity. But I saw a WWJD bracelet about five years ago, and it changed the way I look at the world. There is beauty in grace. And we all need grace. Especially me.
Because I started living too soon. Or maybe it was too late. I was taking action before I was fully awake. I made horrible childish mistakes at adult games. And my self-recrimination stops as I remember that I was too young to be playing those games in the first place. The person I was would sacrifice my entire future for a moment. Not for the thrill of the moment, but for a moment of approval or acceptance. The person I was made herself invisible and worked off the radar to get her emotional needs met. No values of my own. Nothing so sacred or personal that I wouldn’t give it up for someone else. I adapted myself to whatever the situation or person in front of me called for. Weak. Desperate. Small.
So how did I get to be the obnoxious independent thinking person that I am today? I’m not sure it’s something that can be fully understood. Somebody gave me the tools, many somebodies gave me many tools along the way. But I really decided, fully committed to using these tools when I became a mother. I was sick of heartache by then. Sick of the heartache that comes with bad decisions. And then I had someone in my life that I valued. I didn’t think enough of myself to set boundaries, but I thought enough of her to go to bloody battle with anyone who would tread on her.
And I thank God every day for giving me the will to live. Not just exist, but to live. She is sixteen now, and she is everything that goes with that. Good, bad and OMG! I’m not the best parent. All parents lack objectivity, but sometimes I examine her with glittering fascination. She reads. She drives. She rolls her eyes. I am amazed that we made it this far. She’s almost a fully formed human being.
Her name is the same as the river of Jesus' baptism. The popular definition of her name is “downflowing” as it relates to water, and maybe that is also fitting. But her name truly means “descendent of the tribe of Dan,” and Dan’s name means “God is my judge.”
When I look at my life in its entirety, it’s dizzying. I’m sure this can’t be healthy, because when I think back to the person I was, I cannot reconcile that person with the person I am now. And how I came to be here, at this age, in this life, with these people is bizarre to me. I imagine an amnesiac coming home from the hospital after a head injury trying to remember the threads and stories tied to the people and places and things in her life.
In this present tense, I am a relatively content, self-sufficient human being. Hopefully I give more to society than I take. I am a reluctant leader. I don’t trust myself, but a lot of people depend on me for a lot of things and I do everything I can to keep from letting them down. I believe in doing what’s right, even when it’s inconvenient, even if it’s difficult, even if it costs you personally. That is the easy part. Figuring out what is right is the most difficult. Finding it buried under all of the “I wants” and “I don’t wants” is a chore.
I know that sometimes you have to speak up and lead. And sometimes you have to shut up and follow. And usually, when you most need to do one of these, it’s when you really don’t want to.
I don’t believe in zero-sum solutions. I don’t believe that if I’m smart, you must be stupid. I don’t believe that if you’re successful, I’m a failure. And I don’t think that there is a prize for identifying the shortcomings of others. I have learned that there is no us vs. them. I like people. I like win-win solutions and the creative process that finds them.
I like quiet enjoyment. I’m not a thrill seeker. And if you saw me screaming on those roller-coasters last Sunday, well, inside, I was quietly enjoying the view. Raising my hands and marveling at the sensation. Melding myself into the turns and rolls, smoothing them out. And if you were there and you thought my screams had a note of falsehood, they did. When I yelled out, it was calculated. I decided to do it to see how it would feel.
I have a collection of amazing people in my life. They make me better at being a human.
I believe that human touch has healing powers.
I am a hard person. I speak harshly. I am intolerant of many things, like mediocrity. But I saw a WWJD bracelet about five years ago, and it changed the way I look at the world. There is beauty in grace. And we all need grace. Especially me.
Because I started living too soon. Or maybe it was too late. I was taking action before I was fully awake. I made horrible childish mistakes at adult games. And my self-recrimination stops as I remember that I was too young to be playing those games in the first place. The person I was would sacrifice my entire future for a moment. Not for the thrill of the moment, but for a moment of approval or acceptance. The person I was made herself invisible and worked off the radar to get her emotional needs met. No values of my own. Nothing so sacred or personal that I wouldn’t give it up for someone else. I adapted myself to whatever the situation or person in front of me called for. Weak. Desperate. Small.
So how did I get to be the obnoxious independent thinking person that I am today? I’m not sure it’s something that can be fully understood. Somebody gave me the tools, many somebodies gave me many tools along the way. But I really decided, fully committed to using these tools when I became a mother. I was sick of heartache by then. Sick of the heartache that comes with bad decisions. And then I had someone in my life that I valued. I didn’t think enough of myself to set boundaries, but I thought enough of her to go to bloody battle with anyone who would tread on her.
And I thank God every day for giving me the will to live. Not just exist, but to live. She is sixteen now, and she is everything that goes with that. Good, bad and OMG! I’m not the best parent. All parents lack objectivity, but sometimes I examine her with glittering fascination. She reads. She drives. She rolls her eyes. I am amazed that we made it this far. She’s almost a fully formed human being.
Her name is the same as the river of Jesus' baptism. The popular definition of her name is “downflowing” as it relates to water, and maybe that is also fitting. But her name truly means “descendent of the tribe of Dan,” and Dan’s name means “God is my judge.”
Monday, August 30, 2010
Park Road 4
No one can drive down Park Road 4 without counting their blessings. I defy them. I know it looks like an anonymous turn off of Highway 281. And the first stretch might mislead you into thinking it’s just a paved path to take you wherever you’re going. Even as you pass Longhorn Cavern, you might still be preoccupied enough to take this place for granted.
And maybe it’s best if you are lulled and unsuspecting when you come to that first hill. Then it really gets you in pit of your belly. Your car tilts down and you have to lift your head to see forward. But you can’t really see forward, you can only see the almost vertical up-stretch of blacktop that is the other side of the hill. The trees block the rest of the road from view. And while you crane your neck, watching for oncoming cars, your stomach floats up into your chest. And before you know it you are tilting your head down, trying to see over the hood of your car, and you stomach is being pulled down toward your seat. Then whoosh, it’s over.
And what makes this road better than any other tickle-belly hill from my childhood is that, on Park Road 4, there’s another hill coming, just as steep as the first. And then there’s a third that’s almost as exciting that follows right after that. And if you’re really blessed, you’ll have two ten-year-old boys in the back seat yelling “Faster! Faster!” But you don’t really have to go faster. The hills will still give their thrill at a safe speed.
And once you’re past those hills and smiling in that homemade ice-cream and lemonade frame of mind, there’s a majestic castle that comes into view just long enough to amaze you all over again. No matter how many times you’ve seen it, you still come to that one point in the road where it’s rising out of the greenery and looming against the blue sky. Then it disappears again, and you can only catch glimpses of it through the trees.
But the little guys in the back won’t let you work very hard to get another look at the castle. “Wow! Mom, look at that.” You turn and sloping down to the left are soft rolling hills framed by the bristly cedar and oak that line the roads. And you feel like you’re landing an airplane when you slide down and around the hill and the view collapses slowly and drags out behind you.
So if you just happen to be taking Park Road 4 to meet the very best friends you have for a birthday party to celebrate one of the most amazing kids you know, well, just be sure you can handle that kind of bliss. It is exquisite.
And maybe it’s best if you are lulled and unsuspecting when you come to that first hill. Then it really gets you in pit of your belly. Your car tilts down and you have to lift your head to see forward. But you can’t really see forward, you can only see the almost vertical up-stretch of blacktop that is the other side of the hill. The trees block the rest of the road from view. And while you crane your neck, watching for oncoming cars, your stomach floats up into your chest. And before you know it you are tilting your head down, trying to see over the hood of your car, and you stomach is being pulled down toward your seat. Then whoosh, it’s over.
And what makes this road better than any other tickle-belly hill from my childhood is that, on Park Road 4, there’s another hill coming, just as steep as the first. And then there’s a third that’s almost as exciting that follows right after that. And if you’re really blessed, you’ll have two ten-year-old boys in the back seat yelling “Faster! Faster!” But you don’t really have to go faster. The hills will still give their thrill at a safe speed.
And once you’re past those hills and smiling in that homemade ice-cream and lemonade frame of mind, there’s a majestic castle that comes into view just long enough to amaze you all over again. No matter how many times you’ve seen it, you still come to that one point in the road where it’s rising out of the greenery and looming against the blue sky. Then it disappears again, and you can only catch glimpses of it through the trees.
But the little guys in the back won’t let you work very hard to get another look at the castle. “Wow! Mom, look at that.” You turn and sloping down to the left are soft rolling hills framed by the bristly cedar and oak that line the roads. And you feel like you’re landing an airplane when you slide down and around the hill and the view collapses slowly and drags out behind you.
So if you just happen to be taking Park Road 4 to meet the very best friends you have for a birthday party to celebrate one of the most amazing kids you know, well, just be sure you can handle that kind of bliss. It is exquisite.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
School Supplies and Introspection
I watched yet another movie today with that same musical scene where one of the main characters walks down a busy street in soul searching reflection. The scene always starts with unfamiliar faces walking toward the camera as a sad song plays. Then in the crowd, the main character’s face distinguishes itself from the rest, as he or she looks introspective.
And after I left the theater, my husband and I went to the store to buy school supplies. Of course I waited until the last minute to buy them. And I won’t use the excuse that I was too busy to do it sooner. Of course I’m busy. Everyone is busy. But yesterday, when I should have gone to the store to get the deed done, I just couldn’t do it. I got tired just thinking about it. So I drove home in soul searching reflection, telling myself that this must be how lazy people feel. They know what they should do, and they don’t. And I told myself that the only difference between me and lazy people are our actions. Then I laid down on the couch with my laptop and wrote.
Being that I’m in a writing class, you might think of writing as a productive thing to do. But the truth is, I don’t earn a living at it and no one is depending on me to get it done. I do it because it is as relaxing an escape for me as a bubble-bath and a romance novel is to some of my friends. So I’m not delusional. I know that being at that store on the Sunday night before school starts was a bad situation created by none other than my own lazy, selfish choices.
So there I was. I had just gotten out of the movie with the reflective-music-busy-street-walking scene, and I found myself in the dismal discount store with the rest of the procrastinating parents. And we all looked haggard and stressed. And we would have been pushy and rude, but we didn’t have any fight in us. And I know why. Because the supply list requires brads in the folders. Pockets and brads. And teachers have asked for pockets and brads for as long as my kids have been in school. And every year, there is box after box full of folders with no brads. Those folders are colorful and have sports team logos on them. They come with a wide variety of colors and designs on the front. They are a great way for your student to express their individuality. But they don’t have brads.
And you get pushed along the school-supply aisle faster than you can search for the items on your list, because other parents need what is just beyond you. So you move a little to let them get what they need, and then someone is behind them, and you move a little more, still trying to look back at the pencils to see how many packs of 8 or 3 that you will need to get the 43 called for on the list. But before you can decide what combination of regular and mechanical pencils your child will want, you have been pushed past the grading pencils, the dividers, the binders and the clipboards. (I want to know what supply list calls for clipboards? I have a junior in high school and have yet to need one of those.) And before you know it, you are pushed out the other end, your basket is empty and you have to circle around to start over.
But, things are looking up in the old Stewart household. The store still had most of what was on the school-supply list. And it was on the school-supply aisle that I had that moment. That moment when your blog topic occurs to you. Even if you don’t blog you know what I mean. Everyone has a funny rant every now and then.
I had been pushed out of the aisle for about the fourth time, and I found myself looking back down at the faces of the parents. At that moment, they looked like the faces on a busy street. And then, the face I was searching for came into focus. My husband, red-eyed and irritated, reflecting on the shortage of folders with brads, I’m sure. If a sad song had been playing, it would have been a scene right out of a movie. Someone should put a school-supply shopping scene into a movie. But movie makers, please don’t let the scene go on too long. I get tired just thinking about it.
And after I left the theater, my husband and I went to the store to buy school supplies. Of course I waited until the last minute to buy them. And I won’t use the excuse that I was too busy to do it sooner. Of course I’m busy. Everyone is busy. But yesterday, when I should have gone to the store to get the deed done, I just couldn’t do it. I got tired just thinking about it. So I drove home in soul searching reflection, telling myself that this must be how lazy people feel. They know what they should do, and they don’t. And I told myself that the only difference between me and lazy people are our actions. Then I laid down on the couch with my laptop and wrote.
Being that I’m in a writing class, you might think of writing as a productive thing to do. But the truth is, I don’t earn a living at it and no one is depending on me to get it done. I do it because it is as relaxing an escape for me as a bubble-bath and a romance novel is to some of my friends. So I’m not delusional. I know that being at that store on the Sunday night before school starts was a bad situation created by none other than my own lazy, selfish choices.
So there I was. I had just gotten out of the movie with the reflective-music-busy-street-walking scene, and I found myself in the dismal discount store with the rest of the procrastinating parents. And we all looked haggard and stressed. And we would have been pushy and rude, but we didn’t have any fight in us. And I know why. Because the supply list requires brads in the folders. Pockets and brads. And teachers have asked for pockets and brads for as long as my kids have been in school. And every year, there is box after box full of folders with no brads. Those folders are colorful and have sports team logos on them. They come with a wide variety of colors and designs on the front. They are a great way for your student to express their individuality. But they don’t have brads.
And you get pushed along the school-supply aisle faster than you can search for the items on your list, because other parents need what is just beyond you. So you move a little to let them get what they need, and then someone is behind them, and you move a little more, still trying to look back at the pencils to see how many packs of 8 or 3 that you will need to get the 43 called for on the list. But before you can decide what combination of regular and mechanical pencils your child will want, you have been pushed past the grading pencils, the dividers, the binders and the clipboards. (I want to know what supply list calls for clipboards? I have a junior in high school and have yet to need one of those.) And before you know it, you are pushed out the other end, your basket is empty and you have to circle around to start over.
But, things are looking up in the old Stewart household. The store still had most of what was on the school-supply list. And it was on the school-supply aisle that I had that moment. That moment when your blog topic occurs to you. Even if you don’t blog you know what I mean. Everyone has a funny rant every now and then.
I had been pushed out of the aisle for about the fourth time, and I found myself looking back down at the faces of the parents. At that moment, they looked like the faces on a busy street. And then, the face I was searching for came into focus. My husband, red-eyed and irritated, reflecting on the shortage of folders with brads, I’m sure. If a sad song had been playing, it would have been a scene right out of a movie. Someone should put a school-supply shopping scene into a movie. But movie makers, please don’t let the scene go on too long. I get tired just thinking about it.
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