When my sisters and I were babies, we could talk up a storm. We read early, processed ideas quickly, and could quote Shakespeare's 14th sonnet at 6 months. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but you get the point. We couldn't, however, walk.
When the twins were born, I was 19 months and still relatively immobile. My parents had not one baby, but three to carry around for a while. I'm sure my mom was worried about it when she talked to pediatrician.
His answer? "Well, Susan, some kids are mobile. Others are verbal."
And thus began life at the Terry household.
As I've mentioned numerous times before, we were a family full of nerds and not very athletic. For me, it wasn't merely that I couldn't play sports. I could barely get from one end of the house to the other without falling and breaking something. By the time I got to middle school, I had broken my collarbone, both wrists, and the main bone in the top of my foot. I was a walking accident.
The trend continued into college and graduate school, where I distinctly remember a 6-month period of time when I fell and sprained my ankle on four separate occasions. That ankle still gives me a bit of trouble when I jog (which is rare, admittedly), and every now and then will swell inexplicably. Wonderful.
I had hoped that in entering my third decade, I would be putting that everlasting awkward phase behind me. My hopes, however, were dashed just a few short days ago.
Picture, if you will, a cafeteria like all other cafeterias. It's high school lunch period, and I've made my way through the line, the salad bar, and the drink dispenser. I'm feeling quite sassy (and comfortable) in my little empire-waisted, knee-length dress and sandals, and I've said my hellos to fellow teachers and former students that have crossed my path. I'm now headed for the teacher's table at the very back of the room, weaving my way between tables and chairs filled with unbelievably gorgeous and graceful teenagers (no kidding; I don't think there's a kid here with a zit on his face).
Suddenly, my little sandaled foot hits a puddle of water. It slides slowly, but uncontrollably, in front of my body. My other foot stays in place. For the first time in my life, I've successfully completed a split. The only problem is that I'm in the middle of a bunch of 16-year-olds and in my once cute (now impractical) empire-waisted dress. In a split formation. On the floor. With a tray in my hand, surrounded by a puddle of pink lemonade and taco salad.
The room got quiet. (It really did!) Finally, one of the girls at the table nearby looked down at me and asked if I were alright, then quietly admitted that she's nearly done the same thing a million times. Nearly, being the operative word. I had ACTUALLY done it.
I mustered up as much dignity as I could manage, struggled out of the painfully awkward position I was in, stood up (all the while trying to keep my dress down), and gathered my tray and silverware. Next stop: the kitchen, where I had to let the cafeteria staff know that there was a mess that had to be cleaned up. Chef Joe is still teasing me about it.
The bright spots: I'm okay. I landed in a split, but still upright enough to not have flashed my undies to all interested parties. I've provided a reason for others to smile, laugh even.
I never thought I'd say it, but I'm currently looking forward to my forties. I'm bound to outgrow this phase sooner or later. For now, I'm off to attend a pep rally in the gym. Wish me luck with those bleachers ...
8.29.2008
8.10.2008
Another summer gone
Well, folks, tomorrow starts year #6 at my school. Hard to believe that I've lived in Macon that long (remember when I was only moving here for a year, till I could get a more glamorous job in a more glamorous place?), or that I've been away from Athens for more than, oh, 6 months. Where has the time gone?
So what did I do with my last day of summer? After church, I spent 3 hours (literally) trying to get a virus off of Cal's computer and another 2 hours filming and editing this video, a task that my odd husband HAD to have accomplished before he could peacefully turn in for the night.*
It's 9:30 now, and I'm about to head to bed at my earliest time in two months. And tomorrow? I'll be getting up at my earliest time since our morning flight out of Atlanta for our trip to Puerto Rico. Ahh... memories. Sigh.
*What Cal didn't mention on his blog was that our truck was parked just out of view of the camera. That's right, people. We DROVE half a mile so that the man could run up the hill for his video. He even did a few jumping jacks before we left the house so that he'd look sweaty, like he'd really been working hard. Nice.
So what did I do with my last day of summer? After church, I spent 3 hours (literally) trying to get a virus off of Cal's computer and another 2 hours filming and editing this video, a task that my odd husband HAD to have accomplished before he could peacefully turn in for the night.*
It's 9:30 now, and I'm about to head to bed at my earliest time in two months. And tomorrow? I'll be getting up at my earliest time since our morning flight out of Atlanta for our trip to Puerto Rico. Ahh... memories. Sigh.
*What Cal didn't mention on his blog was that our truck was parked just out of view of the camera. That's right, people. We DROVE half a mile so that the man could run up the hill for his video. He even did a few jumping jacks before we left the house so that he'd look sweaty, like he'd really been working hard. Nice.
7.29.2008
The financial ramifications of a bad mood.
The other day, I ventured out of my cozy, semi-cool house to brave the sweltering heat of Macon in July. I know, I know -- that statement doesn't seem to represent a real exciting newsbreak. However, if you know me-in-the-summer, you also know that my leaving home is, in fact, a rare occasion. I like to fully enjoy my break from school, and for me that means sleeping late, keeping on my pajamas, watching Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray, reading a good book, and, well, not stepping foot out the door. At all. I could quite honestly go for the entirety of my two-month summer without a breath of fresh air except for the fact that I would end up drinking soured milk in my cereal and eating molded bread on my pb&j's.
Anyway, I digress. So I agreed to leave my comfort zone the other day and accompany Cal (he had taken the afternoon off) to his favorite summertime hangout, Targetworld. Macon's Target is in one of those huge shopping strips that include other great stores such as Ross, Marshall's, Old Navy, Dick's Sporting Goods (hee hee), Michael's, Best Buy, etc. When we go, we usually make a day of it. I, in the midst of my summer-long downtime, wasn't prepared.
After lunch at Margarita's and 2 1/2 hours of cinematic entertainment (The Dark Knight), we headed to Best Buy to look at cameras. I was prepared for this stop, as we had discussed it earlier in the day. When we were done, my hands --which had been gone from home for, at this time, four hours-- automatically started to turn the car towards our neighborhood.
Cal interjected. "Let's go to the GNC across the street." He's on a major "health jag", complete with herbal supplements and excess vitamins. I agreed, but wanted to sit in the car. "Come on in with me!" he encouraged, trying persistently to include me in his interests. I did, but felt the rumblings of a pout in the depths of my being.
GNC happens to be right next door to Target, so, of course, that was his next idea. I think he assumed that when we walked in and I was confronted with the flourescent lights, trendy bags, cute cheap clothes, and rather attractive house decor, I would be okay. It works normally, and I can entertain myself for hours there. Not today.
I stuck miserably close to his side as he wandered toward the unsalted almonds and dried fruit aisle. "Are we almost done?" I whined. He glanced my way and shrugged. "I'm thirsty." More whine.
"Here," he said, still very patiently. "I'll buy you a diet coke."
I pouted some more. If we were going home soon, there was no need to spend the money on a diet coke. I had two cases of them there. I was, you see, still hoping for the best. We bought the diet coke. Pout pout pout.
We left Target and headed towards Sam's. By this time, I was in top form.
Me (pout pout pout): "I can't go in Sam's with this diet coke. They'll think I stole it."
Him: "Just stick it in your purse like you always do."
Me (pout pout pout): "I'll just sit in the car."
Him (beginning to get aggravated): "It's 102 degrees out here. Just forget the diet coke."
Me (accelerated pout pout pout): "But we paid $1.50 for it!"
Him (fully exasperated now): "SO WHAT? IT WAS JUST $1.50!"
Me (full fledged wail): "HOW CAN WE EVER PAY FOR OUR KIDS' COLLEGES IF WE BUY COKES FOR 1.50????"
Needless to say, that was the climax of the argument and the peak of my bad mood. As the statement was coming out of my mouth, I could hear how ridiculous I sounded. Seriously? College tuition? Cal looked at me, completely baffled, as if to say "Do we have kids that I don't know about?"
The good that came out of the situation was that Cal assumed that I must be hard-pressed for money if I was crying over spending $1.50 on a coke (when actually I was just using that as an excuse to be miserable), and it forced "the talk" about savings, retirement, etc. I emailed my uncle, a stock broker/financial guy down in Thomasville about opening that Roth IRA that my parents have been hounding me about for 10 years. Just today, with trembling hands and a whole lot of immature regret, I'm sending my forms off with instructions to directly transfer funds out of my account and into the IRA every month so I can't opt out of contributing when, say, I find 16 great buys at Target, Ross, and Marshall's the next time I agree to leave the house. A monthly reminder, in other words, that I should've just drunk the stupid diet coke.
Currently, I'm back to lazing around the house in my pj's, watching Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray. I hope this behavior will last the duration of the next week and a half, which is all the vacation I have left. I don't think my teacher's salary will cover the consequences of another summertime outing.
Anyway, I digress. So I agreed to leave my comfort zone the other day and accompany Cal (he had taken the afternoon off) to his favorite summertime hangout, Targetworld. Macon's Target is in one of those huge shopping strips that include other great stores such as Ross, Marshall's, Old Navy, Dick's Sporting Goods (hee hee), Michael's, Best Buy, etc. When we go, we usually make a day of it. I, in the midst of my summer-long downtime, wasn't prepared.
After lunch at Margarita's and 2 1/2 hours of cinematic entertainment (The Dark Knight), we headed to Best Buy to look at cameras. I was prepared for this stop, as we had discussed it earlier in the day. When we were done, my hands --which had been gone from home for, at this time, four hours-- automatically started to turn the car towards our neighborhood.
Cal interjected. "Let's go to the GNC across the street." He's on a major "health jag", complete with herbal supplements and excess vitamins. I agreed, but wanted to sit in the car. "Come on in with me!" he encouraged, trying persistently to include me in his interests. I did, but felt the rumblings of a pout in the depths of my being.
GNC happens to be right next door to Target, so, of course, that was his next idea. I think he assumed that when we walked in and I was confronted with the flourescent lights, trendy bags, cute cheap clothes, and rather attractive house decor, I would be okay. It works normally, and I can entertain myself for hours there. Not today.
I stuck miserably close to his side as he wandered toward the unsalted almonds and dried fruit aisle. "Are we almost done?" I whined. He glanced my way and shrugged. "I'm thirsty." More whine.
"Here," he said, still very patiently. "I'll buy you a diet coke."
I pouted some more. If we were going home soon, there was no need to spend the money on a diet coke. I had two cases of them there. I was, you see, still hoping for the best. We bought the diet coke. Pout pout pout.
We left Target and headed towards Sam's. By this time, I was in top form.
Me (pout pout pout): "I can't go in Sam's with this diet coke. They'll think I stole it."
Him: "Just stick it in your purse like you always do."
Me (pout pout pout): "I'll just sit in the car."
Him (beginning to get aggravated): "It's 102 degrees out here. Just forget the diet coke."
Me (accelerated pout pout pout): "But we paid $1.50 for it!"
Him (fully exasperated now): "SO WHAT? IT WAS JUST $1.50!"
Me (full fledged wail): "HOW CAN WE EVER PAY FOR OUR KIDS' COLLEGES IF WE BUY COKES FOR 1.50????"
Needless to say, that was the climax of the argument and the peak of my bad mood. As the statement was coming out of my mouth, I could hear how ridiculous I sounded. Seriously? College tuition? Cal looked at me, completely baffled, as if to say "Do we have kids that I don't know about?"
The good that came out of the situation was that Cal assumed that I must be hard-pressed for money if I was crying over spending $1.50 on a coke (when actually I was just using that as an excuse to be miserable), and it forced "the talk" about savings, retirement, etc. I emailed my uncle, a stock broker/financial guy down in Thomasville about opening that Roth IRA that my parents have been hounding me about for 10 years. Just today, with trembling hands and a whole lot of immature regret, I'm sending my forms off with instructions to directly transfer funds out of my account and into the IRA every month so I can't opt out of contributing when, say, I find 16 great buys at Target, Ross, and Marshall's the next time I agree to leave the house. A monthly reminder, in other words, that I should've just drunk the stupid diet coke.
Currently, I'm back to lazing around the house in my pj's, watching Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray. I hope this behavior will last the duration of the next week and a half, which is all the vacation I have left. I don't think my teacher's salary will cover the consequences of another summertime outing.
7.19.2008
A long way to go
My friend Carrie is passing through town tonight on her way from Tallahassee back to Athens, and she decided to stop over for the night in order to break up her trip.
This is the very first time that an out-of-town friend of mine (not relative) has come to stay (Macon isn't exactly a tourist town), and in my excitement, I went a little overboard in tonight's supper preparations. The produce aisle at Kroger was chock full of tempting summer vegetables, and rather than make decisions, I just decided to cook everything that looked appetizing.
Her arrival is due within the hour, and awaiting us in the kitchen are chicken and rice, cream peas, squash casserole, blueberry AND blackberry muffins, sauteed okra (Cal's fave), and a tomato/cucumber/feta salad. For dessert, it's strawberry shortcake.
I was feeling like quite the Southern hostess, complete with fresh sheets in the guestroom; clean, folded towels on the bed; a variety of lotions and bath goodies in the guest bathroom; and, best of all, a summer feast to satisfy even the hungriest appetite.
That is, until I got an email from my sister, a how-to on making my mother's delicious homemade strawberry fig jam. It ended in this, matter-of-fact way:
I'm breaking out into a cold sweat just reading it. Forget my vain thoughts from earlier in the day. If being a Southern girl depends on one's ability to sterilize and seal jam jars, this girl-from-the-South is farther from her arrival than she originally thought. Sigh.
This is the very first time that an out-of-town friend of mine (not relative) has come to stay (Macon isn't exactly a tourist town), and in my excitement, I went a little overboard in tonight's supper preparations. The produce aisle at Kroger was chock full of tempting summer vegetables, and rather than make decisions, I just decided to cook everything that looked appetizing.
Her arrival is due within the hour, and awaiting us in the kitchen are chicken and rice, cream peas, squash casserole, blueberry AND blackberry muffins, sauteed okra (Cal's fave), and a tomato/cucumber/feta salad. For dessert, it's strawberry shortcake.
I was feeling like quite the Southern hostess, complete with fresh sheets in the guestroom; clean, folded towels on the bed; a variety of lotions and bath goodies in the guest bathroom; and, best of all, a summer feast to satisfy even the hungriest appetite.
That is, until I got an email from my sister, a how-to on making my mother's delicious homemade strawberry fig jam. It ended in this, matter-of-fact way:
To sterilize jars and seals: Boil seals and tops, tongs, and whatever instrument you use to pour the jelly from the pot into the jar. Then put the jars in the dishwasher and run it. It needs to coincide with the jam on the stove. Need to keep the jars hot. So, if the dishwasher gets done early, keep it on a heat dryer cyle. Take jars out one at a time, fill it with jam, and then wipe down the lip of the jar and around. Using the tongs get a top and seal and place on the
jar. Twist it on but not too tight and then turn it upside down. Leave it upside down for about a minute and then flip it back over. Always replace the tong back into the pot of water to resterilize them between each use. Repeat.
I'm breaking out into a cold sweat just reading it. Forget my vain thoughts from earlier in the day. If being a Southern girl depends on one's ability to sterilize and seal jam jars, this girl-from-the-South is farther from her arrival than she originally thought. Sigh.
6.28.2008
Puzzles
Somewhat out of boredom, and somewhat out of curiosity, I started a puzzle tonight. Cal, the stereotypical jock/bully, can't get over what a nerd I am. He walked in a few minutes ago from being on the Internet for an hour and promptly exclaimed, "You've got the border done! You're such a dork!" I remembered my tactics in dealing with kids like him from high school, and promptly ignored his cry for attention.
In my family, we may not have won any sporting events or run any marathons, but we sure could do a puzzle. We were a family full of "smart kids", not athletes. Every summer when we'd pack up for the beach, we'd be sure to include a puzzle or two to complete while we were there. We had dozens of them ... teddy bears at a tea party, seashells, exotic birds. You name it, we put it together.
My older sister Beth never really, truly got into the puzzle thing, or at least she never admitted that she did. She was always kinda the Wayne to my Kevin Arnold (although a more feminine, attractive version), and her favorite prank was to sneak into the puzzle room (our seldom-used formal dining room) and steal one piece of the puzzle.
The time that we all anxiously awaited would inevitably approach -- completing the last few pieces of the puzzle. Just as inevitably, we'd all start arguing over who had earned the honor of placing the last piece of the puzzle into its rightful position. "I did the entire boat!" I'd cry. "But I did the whole sea!" one of my younger sisters would respond.
The arguments always were in vain, however, as we'd get to the last piece, and, well, it wouldn't exist. We'd look high and low -- under the table, under the puzzle, in the cushions of the dining room chairs. Nothing. Then, using her flawless judgement of perfect comedic timing, Beth would waltz into the room (for only the second time in the puzzle period) and quickly slide the piece into place. Always. I'm not really sure why we never caught on before she was howling with laughter and we were (literally) crying in frustration about the unfairness of the whole thing. Maybe we weren't that smart, after all.
Anyway, my schedule is pretty open for the next week or two, so I thought I'd resurrect the old summer tradition and start a puzzle of my very own. Cal swears he'll have nothing to do with it. We'll see. My guess is that he'll be hooked soon enough. In the meantime, I have a boat to finish.
In my family, we may not have won any sporting events or run any marathons, but we sure could do a puzzle. We were a family full of "smart kids", not athletes. Every summer when we'd pack up for the beach, we'd be sure to include a puzzle or two to complete while we were there. We had dozens of them ... teddy bears at a tea party, seashells, exotic birds. You name it, we put it together.
My older sister Beth never really, truly got into the puzzle thing, or at least she never admitted that she did. She was always kinda the Wayne to my Kevin Arnold (although a more feminine, attractive version), and her favorite prank was to sneak into the puzzle room (our seldom-used formal dining room) and steal one piece of the puzzle.
The time that we all anxiously awaited would inevitably approach -- completing the last few pieces of the puzzle. Just as inevitably, we'd all start arguing over who had earned the honor of placing the last piece of the puzzle into its rightful position. "I did the entire boat!" I'd cry. "But I did the whole sea!" one of my younger sisters would respond.
The arguments always were in vain, however, as we'd get to the last piece, and, well, it wouldn't exist. We'd look high and low -- under the table, under the puzzle, in the cushions of the dining room chairs. Nothing. Then, using her flawless judgement of perfect comedic timing, Beth would waltz into the room (for only the second time in the puzzle period) and quickly slide the piece into place. Always. I'm not really sure why we never caught on before she was howling with laughter and we were (literally) crying in frustration about the unfairness of the whole thing. Maybe we weren't that smart, after all.
Anyway, my schedule is pretty open for the next week or two, so I thought I'd resurrect the old summer tradition and start a puzzle of my very own. Cal swears he'll have nothing to do with it. We'll see. My guess is that he'll be hooked soon enough. In the meantime, I have a boat to finish.
6.25.2008
Take Two
Following my Aunt Marylu's advice from my previous post, I decided to start again with a new tomato plant today. Following my uncle's advice (the reigning King of Roses in the Rose City -- Thomasville), I planted it in a bag of cow manure. His description of what would come of it (and I quote): unFRIGGINGbelievable. Sounds good to me!
6.23.2008
Reaping the flower garden benefits
I was relieved to find that most of my garden survived the week-long trip from which Cal and I just returned. 2/4 of my black-eyed susans seem to have kicked the bucket without the daily watering, but the two that are left are so huge that I had to stake them this morning. My tomato bush, sadly, is in dire shape. It has plenty of tomatoes on it left from when it was healthy, but it got too dry last week (even though I had a friend come by and water it a couple of times) and I'm not at all convinced that it is going to survive, much less provide any more delicious tomatoes than it already has on it. Even more sad ... the few that have already ripened did so the week I was gone, so I have only been able to taste one of the fruits of my labor and love. At least Elizabeth was able to make a fine pasta sauce with the others while I was gone. I'm glad they didn't go to waste!
Pictures below. The one of the full garden was taken after I had cut all of the flowers you see in the vases, so you can imagine how much fuller it was just a few minutes prior. And the black-eyed susans are still recovering a bit from the staking they received, so they aren't quite in top form. All those flowers coming from merely two plants! The shastas (b/w the susans and the coneflowers) are a late-blooming variety and are just barely beginning to blossom. And the sunflowers!! I'm thrilled, but can't get up the nerve to cut one or two for decoration. They keep blooming, right? Also, a photo of my sad, dying tomato bush, complete with unripened fruit. There are more tomatoes left than there are leaves, unfortunately. Any suggestions from my gardeners out there? It's too late to start a new one, isn't it?
Oh yeah! I almost forgot the most exciting news of the week. Many of you know that Cal does not eat vegetables unless they come in a can (green beans) or are fried (squash/okra). Yesterday, we took a trip to the farmers' market, where I picked up some okra to sautee (whole, with only a bit of olive oil) for myself. Unencouraged by me (as I had only cooked enough for myself), Cal helped himself when it came time to fix our plates for dinner. He loved it! I ended up cooking the rest of them so he could eat a full helping. He even wanted to buy more today at the Kroger, but he said he couldn't find them when he went. Hurray!
Pictures below. The one of the full garden was taken after I had cut all of the flowers you see in the vases, so you can imagine how much fuller it was just a few minutes prior. And the black-eyed susans are still recovering a bit from the staking they received, so they aren't quite in top form. All those flowers coming from merely two plants! The shastas (b/w the susans and the coneflowers) are a late-blooming variety and are just barely beginning to blossom. And the sunflowers!! I'm thrilled, but can't get up the nerve to cut one or two for decoration. They keep blooming, right? Also, a photo of my sad, dying tomato bush, complete with unripened fruit. There are more tomatoes left than there are leaves, unfortunately. Any suggestions from my gardeners out there? It's too late to start a new one, isn't it?
Oh yeah! I almost forgot the most exciting news of the week. Many of you know that Cal does not eat vegetables unless they come in a can (green beans) or are fried (squash/okra). Yesterday, we took a trip to the farmers' market, where I picked up some okra to sautee (whole, with only a bit of olive oil) for myself. Unencouraged by me (as I had only cooked enough for myself), Cal helped himself when it came time to fix our plates for dinner. He loved it! I ended up cooking the rest of them so he could eat a full helping. He even wanted to buy more today at the Kroger, but he said he couldn't find them when he went. Hurray!
6.13.2008
The end of a decade
Today is the last day of my 20's.
If I were to think about it too much, I'm sure I'd eventually make myself sad. You know, the whole passage of time, inevitability of death, can't ever go back to re-live a moment thoughts. However, much to the aggravation of first my parents, then my professors, and now my husband, I don't tend to worry too much about things in the future.
The good news is that my life has become more fulfilling as I've gotten older. I didn't gain much confidence until I was in my mid-20's, and the friendships that I developed in those years and since then are the ones that I truly believe will last a lifetime, along with only a couple from my younger days. I can only hope that this new decade ahead of me will bring other such friendships that I'll cherish just as deeply.
My hair stylist, Tommy, encouraged me the other day by claiming that "if you thought your 20's were good, just wait till your 30's!" He said that people take you more seriously when you're older, and that's a good thing. I asked him if it'd work with my 15-year-old students, and he gave me this kinda helpless look, like he didn't think anything would help for that situation. Oh well.
I hope Tommy's right, but my 20's will be a tough act to follow. The years included three trips to Europe, one of which inspired me to get out of my dead-end 6-year relationship with the high school boyfriend, which -in turn- inspired me to dump my dead-end major halfway through grad school and return to my first love ... Literature. The RUF clan, and living with Kelly at Tivoli apartments for three years. Nick the Cat. Boxing on a blow-up ring with Meredith at Ath-fest. Standing appointments at Mellow Mushroom downtown (9:30 Friday nights). Redeemer. My first job. The adoption of Bridget Jones as my pop culture, singleton heroine. Vegas, baby. Finding Cal. Marrying him.
My sweet husband attempted to throw a dinner party on my behalf for tomorrow night, but it's fallen through because, even though he invited nearly 20 people, no one (literally) except for he and Elizabeth (the two instigators) can come. He feels pretty down about it, I think, but I told him not to take it personally. Three years ago, Elizabeth and I invited about 10 or so people out for dinner to celebrate my 27th birthday, and no one showed up except for Charlie, who was over an hour late. It's something about summer birthdays, I think.
So tomorrow night, after a scheduled manicure/pedicure-for-one at noon, Elizabeth, Cal, and I will be having an intimate little celebration at my favorite Macon restaurant (local, of course). We'll have to make it an early night, as Cal and I leave very early the next morning to catch our 9 a.m. flight out of Atlanta to Puerto Rico for our anniversary trip! And next weekend? Rebecca's getting hitched in the oh-so-cool town of Asheville, so we're headed there straight from our flight back into Georgia Thursday night. Not a bad birthday/anniversary celebration in and of itself, I think. So forget those friends-with-plans-on-my-birthday! I'm gonna have a delightful time anyway.
Even if I will be 30.
If I were to think about it too much, I'm sure I'd eventually make myself sad. You know, the whole passage of time, inevitability of death, can't ever go back to re-live a moment thoughts. However, much to the aggravation of first my parents, then my professors, and now my husband, I don't tend to worry too much about things in the future.
The good news is that my life has become more fulfilling as I've gotten older. I didn't gain much confidence until I was in my mid-20's, and the friendships that I developed in those years and since then are the ones that I truly believe will last a lifetime, along with only a couple from my younger days. I can only hope that this new decade ahead of me will bring other such friendships that I'll cherish just as deeply.
My hair stylist, Tommy, encouraged me the other day by claiming that "if you thought your 20's were good, just wait till your 30's!" He said that people take you more seriously when you're older, and that's a good thing. I asked him if it'd work with my 15-year-old students, and he gave me this kinda helpless look, like he didn't think anything would help for that situation. Oh well.
I hope Tommy's right, but my 20's will be a tough act to follow. The years included three trips to Europe, one of which inspired me to get out of my dead-end 6-year relationship with the high school boyfriend, which -in turn- inspired me to dump my dead-end major halfway through grad school and return to my first love ... Literature. The RUF clan, and living with Kelly at Tivoli apartments for three years. Nick the Cat. Boxing on a blow-up ring with Meredith at Ath-fest. Standing appointments at Mellow Mushroom downtown (9:30 Friday nights). Redeemer. My first job. The adoption of Bridget Jones as my pop culture, singleton heroine. Vegas, baby. Finding Cal. Marrying him.
My sweet husband attempted to throw a dinner party on my behalf for tomorrow night, but it's fallen through because, even though he invited nearly 20 people, no one (literally) except for he and Elizabeth (the two instigators) can come. He feels pretty down about it, I think, but I told him not to take it personally. Three years ago, Elizabeth and I invited about 10 or so people out for dinner to celebrate my 27th birthday, and no one showed up except for Charlie, who was over an hour late. It's something about summer birthdays, I think.
So tomorrow night, after a scheduled manicure/pedicure-for-one at noon, Elizabeth, Cal, and I will be having an intimate little celebration at my favorite Macon restaurant (local, of course). We'll have to make it an early night, as Cal and I leave very early the next morning to catch our 9 a.m. flight out of Atlanta to Puerto Rico for our anniversary trip! And next weekend? Rebecca's getting hitched in the oh-so-cool town of Asheville, so we're headed there straight from our flight back into Georgia Thursday night. Not a bad birthday/anniversary celebration in and of itself, I think. So forget those friends-with-plans-on-my-birthday! I'm gonna have a delightful time anyway.
Even if I will be 30.
6.07.2008
Computer Woes
You all don't know this, but I've been without a computer for a few weeks. For some reason, my trusty (well, I guess it's not-so-trusty) laptop started acting crazy out of nowhere one night. It was running slow. Not I've-got-too-many-files-on-my-hard-drive slow, but mouse-won't-move-any-quicker-than-a-turtle slow. I got mad at it, put it away for awhile, and used Cal's computer.
If any of you know Cal's habits, you may know that he's, um, well, got an addiction. He denies it, of course. Says that he can quit anytime, but we've all heard that before, right? What is his addiction, you say? The Internet.
Cal can't go for one hour without checking his email. Heck, he can't go for 1/2 an hour, or even 1/4 an hour. He loves his computer. I've asked him several times what exactly he does for hours on end, and he just says that he checks news sites, scores, blogs, etc. Nothing much, he says. What appeal do you see in the Food Network? he retaliates.
Point taken.
One time, he was so bored of his Internet, but couldn't bear the thought of putting it down. Therefore, merely for the sake of something to do, he Googled "cat sounds" and played them for about 30 minutes to see if any provoked a reaction out of Nick the Cat who was sitting on Cal's lap at the time. Several did, and he was once again entertained.
Anyway, all of this rambling background is to say that my lack of a laptop really left me with his laptop as the only option for checking email, blogs, and other such sites, and with his Internet habits, I therefore have done very little of anything computer-related lately.
This morning, as he replayed the movie that he posted on his blog over and over and over again (laughing loudly each time), I decided to take matters into my own hands. I pulled out my crippled laptop, took 2 painstaking hours to make 3 data cds (saving all of my old files and pictures), then popped in the System Recovery disc* that came with my laptop to start the operating system over from scratch. Hurrah! It worked!
So I'm back in full Internet-force, thank goodness. Heading off soon for Cal's second match in his tennis tournament. Wish him (and me...) luck!
*To give him credit, Cal helped in the 1-hour search for the recovery disc, which involved two trips up to our atrociously sweltering attic, and ended up being the one to find it (buried under piles of bills right next to my computer, of course). Thanks, babe!
If any of you know Cal's habits, you may know that he's, um, well, got an addiction. He denies it, of course. Says that he can quit anytime, but we've all heard that before, right? What is his addiction, you say? The Internet.
Cal can't go for one hour without checking his email. Heck, he can't go for 1/2 an hour, or even 1/4 an hour. He loves his computer. I've asked him several times what exactly he does for hours on end, and he just says that he checks news sites, scores, blogs, etc. Nothing much, he says. What appeal do you see in the Food Network? he retaliates.
Point taken.
One time, he was so bored of his Internet, but couldn't bear the thought of putting it down. Therefore, merely for the sake of something to do, he Googled "cat sounds" and played them for about 30 minutes to see if any provoked a reaction out of Nick the Cat who was sitting on Cal's lap at the time. Several did, and he was once again entertained.
Anyway, all of this rambling background is to say that my lack of a laptop really left me with his laptop as the only option for checking email, blogs, and other such sites, and with his Internet habits, I therefore have done very little of anything computer-related lately.
This morning, as he replayed the movie that he posted on his blog over and over and over again (laughing loudly each time), I decided to take matters into my own hands. I pulled out my crippled laptop, took 2 painstaking hours to make 3 data cds (saving all of my old files and pictures), then popped in the System Recovery disc* that came with my laptop to start the operating system over from scratch. Hurrah! It worked!
So I'm back in full Internet-force, thank goodness. Heading off soon for Cal's second match in his tennis tournament. Wish him (and me...) luck!
*To give him credit, Cal helped in the 1-hour search for the recovery disc, which involved two trips up to our atrociously sweltering attic, and ended up being the one to find it (buried under piles of bills right next to my computer, of course). Thanks, babe!
6.04.2008
Vacation
The most obvious perk of being a teacher is that I have the summer off. And the most obvious perk of being married to a teacher (or at least a guy who works at a school and therefore has school hours) is that he's off, too. We know how rare that is, and we also know that we should take advantage of the time, especially before we're tied down a bit more with kids.
A couple of months ago, we started speculating about where we'd go this summer. Last summer we took our honeymoon to Denver, so we thought we'd do something different than the "out west" experience this year. I've practically lived on Travelzoo recently, searching for good deals, hoping we'd be able to snag something fabulous within our not-so-fabulous budget.
Last night, it happened. A couple of weeks ago, Cal had the idea to go to Puerto Rico -- all the atmosphere of Cancun without the hassle of passports, customs, language barriers, etc. He actually found a hotel online that he fell in love with; unfortunately, it was a luxury hotel and way out of our price range.
A few nights ago, though, he stumbled upon a package deal on cheaptickets.com that (coincidentally?) included four nights at the hotel that Cal liked plus airfare from Atlanta. Rooms were much more reasonably priced than they were on the resort's homepage, but they were still just a bit out of our price range. We decided to hold off a little longer, and even started looking elsewhere for more budget-wise destination options.
Yesterday afternoon, however, the price had dropped about $300. And by last night, it had dropped another $100. Suddenly, the trip fit into the price we had set. But then came the gamble ... to book? or wait and see if it dropped even more overnight?
We decided to wait. Cal went to play tennis, and I stayed at home. Bored, I checked the site again. One of the other flights mentioned that it had only 4 seats left. I started to get nervous. Refreshed the page. A second flight had only 3 seats. I knew I'd better act. After a comically long hesitation (that included frantic prayers) at the page that has the "Buy it" button, I pulled the trigger.
Just a few minutes ago, I very nervously checked the site again, just knowing that it would be down another couple hundred dollars. However, much to my relief, it had gone back up ... $200! We had timed it perfectly. We bought low. Phew!
So ... in less than two weeks, Cal and I will be headed to the Gran Melia in Puerto Rico for 5 days and 4 nights. We're leaving one day after my birthday, and one day before our first anniversary. Guess we'll have to use that wedding cake that's in my freezer for a birthday cake! It's got green icing, after all...
A couple of months ago, we started speculating about where we'd go this summer. Last summer we took our honeymoon to Denver, so we thought we'd do something different than the "out west" experience this year. I've practically lived on Travelzoo recently, searching for good deals, hoping we'd be able to snag something fabulous within our not-so-fabulous budget.
Last night, it happened. A couple of weeks ago, Cal had the idea to go to Puerto Rico -- all the atmosphere of Cancun without the hassle of passports, customs, language barriers, etc. He actually found a hotel online that he fell in love with; unfortunately, it was a luxury hotel and way out of our price range.
A few nights ago, though, he stumbled upon a package deal on cheaptickets.com that (coincidentally?) included four nights at the hotel that Cal liked plus airfare from Atlanta. Rooms were much more reasonably priced than they were on the resort's homepage, but they were still just a bit out of our price range. We decided to hold off a little longer, and even started looking elsewhere for more budget-wise destination options.
Yesterday afternoon, however, the price had dropped about $300. And by last night, it had dropped another $100. Suddenly, the trip fit into the price we had set. But then came the gamble ... to book? or wait and see if it dropped even more overnight?
We decided to wait. Cal went to play tennis, and I stayed at home. Bored, I checked the site again. One of the other flights mentioned that it had only 4 seats left. I started to get nervous. Refreshed the page. A second flight had only 3 seats. I knew I'd better act. After a comically long hesitation (that included frantic prayers) at the page that has the "Buy it" button, I pulled the trigger.
Just a few minutes ago, I very nervously checked the site again, just knowing that it would be down another couple hundred dollars. However, much to my relief, it had gone back up ... $200! We had timed it perfectly. We bought low. Phew!
So ... in less than two weeks, Cal and I will be headed to the Gran Melia in Puerto Rico for 5 days and 4 nights. We're leaving one day after my birthday, and one day before our first anniversary. Guess we'll have to use that wedding cake that's in my freezer for a birthday cake! It's got green icing, after all...
5.31.2008
Never leave a man alone
Finals week at school finished up yesterday, and to take a breather from my grading and a break from Macon, I traveled down to Pelham last night to catch up with my family before my sister Beth heads up to Oklahoma City for her two-year pediatric surgery fellowship on Tuesday.
Cal couldn't get off early yesterday, so he stayed here.
I arrived back home this morning, a little before noon. Upon entering the house, I called out to him that I was home. No answer. "Cal?" I called again. I looked in all the usual spots: the bed (it was Saturday morning, after all), the kitchen, the green recliner, the bathroom. Nothing.
Figuring he might've gone for a jog (or -more likely- to El Azteca for lunch), I wandered out to the backyard to check on my garden (where the black-eyed susans are about to bloom!) and found quite a shock.
We've had some foundation bricks buried in our yard since Cal and his dad tore down the old brick "shed" that was here when he bought the house. The top of the bricks was level with the ground. Cal, apparently, decided to get rid of them once and for all.
Still no sign of Cal, however, until I heard a faint moan coming from beneath the dogwood tree that stands next to our deck, where I was standing as I surveyed what looked like the excavation of King Tut's tomb. I looked down, and saw ...
I think he missed me.
Cal couldn't get off early yesterday, so he stayed here.
I arrived back home this morning, a little before noon. Upon entering the house, I called out to him that I was home. No answer. "Cal?" I called again. I looked in all the usual spots: the bed (it was Saturday morning, after all), the kitchen, the green recliner, the bathroom. Nothing.
Figuring he might've gone for a jog (or -more likely- to El Azteca for lunch), I wandered out to the backyard to check on my garden (where the black-eyed susans are about to bloom!) and found quite a shock.
We've had some foundation bricks buried in our yard since Cal and his dad tore down the old brick "shed" that was here when he bought the house. The top of the bricks was level with the ground. Cal, apparently, decided to get rid of them once and for all.
Still no sign of Cal, however, until I heard a faint moan coming from beneath the dogwood tree that stands next to our deck, where I was standing as I surveyed what looked like the excavation of King Tut's tomb. I looked down, and saw ...
I think he missed me.
5.08.2008
A new hobby
While Cal's been monitoring the progress of our baby birds on the front porch, I've been closely tending to my new plants. I do believe that I was just as excited about seeing baby tomatoes (currently, four) on my tomato bush the other day as he was about finding little blue eggs in our fern. I've also got 9 sunflowers growing from seed in our backyard, and I dug up the scraggly azaleas that couldn't take the full sun of our front, replanted them in the shady back, and replaced them with some hardier breeds. I'm getting a bit obsessed, I admit. First thing I do when I get home from work is head to the backyard and water my garden. Pictures of the new front (although most of you never saw the old), tomatoes, and sunflowers below; I'll include ones of my perennial bed once it starts to bloom (fingers crossed!) this summer.
New foundation plants: yews, dwarf pittosporum, and cleyera
My most exciting prospects yet ... (tomato sandwiches! fresh pasta sauce! hurray!)
Nine baby sunflowers, staked and ready for summer!
New foundation plants: yews, dwarf pittosporum, and cleyera
My most exciting prospects yet ... (tomato sandwiches! fresh pasta sauce! hurray!)
Nine baby sunflowers, staked and ready for summer!
4.26.2008
A Humiliating Defeat
Every year, my church holds a silent auction in order to raise money for missions. I usually find some great deals; a couple of years ago I got this gorgeous antique mirror, valued at $250, for $27. I have it hanging up as our only full-length in the house. Another year, I purchased a $75 massage at this really trendy spa for only $30. Not bad.
This year's event was last night, so I grabbed my checkbook and headed out the door about the same time that Cal left for his tennis tournament. I had some thoughts in mind: would I snag us a fantastic, secluded mountain home for a week this summer? A cool piece of furniture to add to our house? Some high school guys to do yardwork for us one day?
At first, the initial browse was a bit disappointing. The vacation homes were mostly beach (of which Cal's not too impressed. he did live at one for upwards of 7 years, you know.), and none of the gift certificates were tempting. I almost put my number down for a microderm abrasion, thinking it might help my rosacia that has always irritated me, but then I chickened out. And there were a couple of paintings that I liked, but I couldn't think of anywhere I'd hang them. I gave up, and went to grab some food from the other side of the room.
On a side note: Dinner was being catered by Caliente's, which is Macon's local version of Moe's (and oh so much better). The guy who owns the place is, coincidentally, named Cal, so he's easy to remember. Plus he's best friends with one of my cousins, and he buys advertisement in (my) Cal's school newspaper, so we always chat with him a bit when we go in to get our weekly fix of California-style burritos and quesadillas. Last night, he saw me fixing my plate, and came over to say hello. I told him that the food looked good, and he immediately replied, "Well, it's no chicken-and-black bean Mini B, but it'll do!" You see, I always order a chicken-and-black bean Mini B (kids' burrito, like a "moo moo" at Moe's). And he knew that. Maybe we're going to Caliente's a little too much ...
Anyway, I finished up eating and decided to take one last stroll through the merchandise just to make sure I didn't want anything. I put my number down for a potted assortment of succulents (only $4). I checked once more at the vacation table. Still all beach.
And then, while glancing at the wrought iron coffee table with glass-top, I saw it. A piece of paper that said, Wool Rug. I looked down. I was standing on a wool rug, but surely this wasn't the one that had only a single bid for $25. This rug was big, at least a 10x13, and absolutely gorgeous. Soft sage, creamy cream, peach. It would've been at least $1000 at a carpet store, and probably more.
I looked around for someone nearby to clarify. There was this little old woman sitting on a bench that was for sale nearby, and I asked her, rather loudly, as she's almost deaf (I knew this b/c she had been in my inquirers class a few years ago when I joined the church). "Is this the rug that goes with the sheet here?" She looked at me, blankly at first, then nodded slightly.
I cheered up. Now here was something I could get excited about. I grinned at her and her invalid brother (for whom she moved to Macon a few years back), and promptly wrote down my bid. $30.
A few of my friends came up, and I showed them the item that had caught my eye. They oohed and ahhed for a few minutes, until I noticed the old woman get up from her bench, hobble over to the table, and write down a number. $35.
"Seriously?" I thought. "She's going to be my competitor?" My heart sank. Had I been bidding against some young, skinny cheerleader-type, I could've been ruthless. I would've fought tooth and nail. But this little old deaf lady who lived with her invalid brother so that she could take care of him? Could I be so heartless?
My Sunday School teacher's wife, Deidre, came over and encouraged me. "It's for missions!" she said. "Sure you can!"
So I wrote down $50. The lady sighed in exasperation from her spot on the bench nearby, hobbled back over, this time looking remarkably similar to the bent-over old hag with the apples in Snow White, and wrote down $55. Mrs. Royal, a fellow teacher and friend, came by and noted the time it took Old Deaf Lady to get to the bid sheet from the bench, and suggested I stand at the table poised and ready seconds before time ran out. I laughed, but secretly thought about it. Hmmm...
Our bidding war lasted until just a couple of minutes before the time was up. I drove the price up by $20's and $30's, and she kept adding $5 more. "It matches my sofa," she croaked. I told her that it matched my bedroom. Finally, when we were well over $100, I looked over at her, her nonresponsive brother, and threw up my hands.
"Fine," I said, none too kindly. "You can have it." I walked away, pouting.
It wasn't the money that made me stop bidding. I would've paid much more for it, and still have felt like I got a steal. It was the stupid Old Deaf Lady and Invalid Brother-man. I would've looked at that rug every day of my life as I got out of bed in the morning and felt guilty. As it is now, I only have to see her and feel irritated once a week at church. (Kidding. Kind of.)
As we left the church a little while later, after I had paid the $4 for my cacti, Elizabeth and I glanced back for one last look at the rug. In disbelief, we watched as Old Deaf Lady helped Invalid Brother up on to a treadmill that was up for grabs. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and I said, "It's not like she has people over all the time who'll see it. Did she really need that rug?" Elizabeth smiled menacingly as she replied, "Maybe you can get her to will it to you when she dies. That way, you'll have it in a few days." We giggled at our blatant insensitivity.
Sure, we were mean. If felt nice, though, to be bad sports about the whole thing. After all, isn't competition what auctions, even church auctions, are all about? Right.
This year's event was last night, so I grabbed my checkbook and headed out the door about the same time that Cal left for his tennis tournament. I had some thoughts in mind: would I snag us a fantastic, secluded mountain home for a week this summer? A cool piece of furniture to add to our house? Some high school guys to do yardwork for us one day?
At first, the initial browse was a bit disappointing. The vacation homes were mostly beach (of which Cal's not too impressed. he did live at one for upwards of 7 years, you know.), and none of the gift certificates were tempting. I almost put my number down for a microderm abrasion, thinking it might help my rosacia that has always irritated me, but then I chickened out. And there were a couple of paintings that I liked, but I couldn't think of anywhere I'd hang them. I gave up, and went to grab some food from the other side of the room.
On a side note: Dinner was being catered by Caliente's, which is Macon's local version of Moe's (and oh so much better). The guy who owns the place is, coincidentally, named Cal, so he's easy to remember. Plus he's best friends with one of my cousins, and he buys advertisement in (my) Cal's school newspaper, so we always chat with him a bit when we go in to get our weekly fix of California-style burritos and quesadillas. Last night, he saw me fixing my plate, and came over to say hello. I told him that the food looked good, and he immediately replied, "Well, it's no chicken-and-black bean Mini B, but it'll do!" You see, I always order a chicken-and-black bean Mini B (kids' burrito, like a "moo moo" at Moe's). And he knew that. Maybe we're going to Caliente's a little too much ...
Anyway, I finished up eating and decided to take one last stroll through the merchandise just to make sure I didn't want anything. I put my number down for a potted assortment of succulents (only $4). I checked once more at the vacation table. Still all beach.
And then, while glancing at the wrought iron coffee table with glass-top, I saw it. A piece of paper that said, Wool Rug. I looked down. I was standing on a wool rug, but surely this wasn't the one that had only a single bid for $25. This rug was big, at least a 10x13, and absolutely gorgeous. Soft sage, creamy cream, peach. It would've been at least $1000 at a carpet store, and probably more.
I looked around for someone nearby to clarify. There was this little old woman sitting on a bench that was for sale nearby, and I asked her, rather loudly, as she's almost deaf (I knew this b/c she had been in my inquirers class a few years ago when I joined the church). "Is this the rug that goes with the sheet here?" She looked at me, blankly at first, then nodded slightly.
I cheered up. Now here was something I could get excited about. I grinned at her and her invalid brother (for whom she moved to Macon a few years back), and promptly wrote down my bid. $30.
A few of my friends came up, and I showed them the item that had caught my eye. They oohed and ahhed for a few minutes, until I noticed the old woman get up from her bench, hobble over to the table, and write down a number. $35.
"Seriously?" I thought. "She's going to be my competitor?" My heart sank. Had I been bidding against some young, skinny cheerleader-type, I could've been ruthless. I would've fought tooth and nail. But this little old deaf lady who lived with her invalid brother so that she could take care of him? Could I be so heartless?
My Sunday School teacher's wife, Deidre, came over and encouraged me. "It's for missions!" she said. "Sure you can!"
So I wrote down $50. The lady sighed in exasperation from her spot on the bench nearby, hobbled back over, this time looking remarkably similar to the bent-over old hag with the apples in Snow White, and wrote down $55. Mrs. Royal, a fellow teacher and friend, came by and noted the time it took Old Deaf Lady to get to the bid sheet from the bench, and suggested I stand at the table poised and ready seconds before time ran out. I laughed, but secretly thought about it. Hmmm...
Our bidding war lasted until just a couple of minutes before the time was up. I drove the price up by $20's and $30's, and she kept adding $5 more. "It matches my sofa," she croaked. I told her that it matched my bedroom. Finally, when we were well over $100, I looked over at her, her nonresponsive brother, and threw up my hands.
"Fine," I said, none too kindly. "You can have it." I walked away, pouting.
It wasn't the money that made me stop bidding. I would've paid much more for it, and still have felt like I got a steal. It was the stupid Old Deaf Lady and Invalid Brother-man. I would've looked at that rug every day of my life as I got out of bed in the morning and felt guilty. As it is now, I only have to see her and feel irritated once a week at church. (Kidding. Kind of.)
As we left the church a little while later, after I had paid the $4 for my cacti, Elizabeth and I glanced back for one last look at the rug. In disbelief, we watched as Old Deaf Lady helped Invalid Brother up on to a treadmill that was up for grabs. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and I said, "It's not like she has people over all the time who'll see it. Did she really need that rug?" Elizabeth smiled menacingly as she replied, "Maybe you can get her to will it to you when she dies. That way, you'll have it in a few days." We giggled at our blatant insensitivity.
Sure, we were mean. If felt nice, though, to be bad sports about the whole thing. After all, isn't competition what auctions, even church auctions, are all about? Right.
4.23.2008
Again, Anna Claire
I know that no one outside of my family really wants to watch a 1 1/2 minute-long video of my 2-year-old niece and Cal from spring break, but the file is too big for some folks' email inboxes to handle, so I'm posting it here. The "Oh Boy" thing is her impersonation of Cal, who uses the phrase involuntarily in the exhale of a sigh all the time. Sometimes, when he's caught himself doing it (never realized it at all until I pointed it out to him), he tries to cover up his quirk by adding another --higher pitched-- "oh boy" in a singsong manner quickly after. Anyway, here she (and he) is, for anyone who wants to see. Obviously, my chocolate addiction runs in the family.
4.22.2008
An English teacher (and self-described nerd) gains an addiction
My grandad just sent me this link, at which I just spent half an hour testing my vocab and, at the same time, donating like 2200 grains of rice to hungry people around the world. I checked it out on snopes, too, and it's legit.
Be careful. It's habit-forming.
Thanks, Pop!
Be careful. It's habit-forming.
Thanks, Pop!
4.21.2008
Fighting the Nazis
I've been having really weird dreams lately, most likely brought on by my reading selections of recent days. In class this quarter, I'm teaching The Chosen, All Quiet on the Western Front, The Sunflower by Simon Wiesenthal, and a more "young adult" Holocaust novel called The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Today, I showed a clip of the Band of Brothers miniseries; you know, the scene where they liberate one of the Landsberg camps? I've also been in contact with some folks who know Holocaust survivors and are going to help me arrange for one or two of them to come speak to my classes.
As a result of this influx of WWI/WWII information, my night-time visions have had mostly to do with being bombed in the trenches of France, getting carried off to Poland by the Gestapo, or being eaten by a giant raccoon. Well, okay, that last one might have more to do with reading Cal's blog than the novels I'm teaching, but whatever.
All this unrest reminds me of when I was little and my mom got on what we now refer to as her "Holocaust Kick", which is, I realize, a totally disrespectful phrase and one I probably should not put in print. My sisters and I mean no harm by it, of course, so I'll leave it here in good faith that you all will take it as such. During this period of time (I was probably about 7 or 8), she got really interested in all things related to the Nazis and the Jews, particularly if there was a movie about it. She must've rented a million films over that time: The Hiding Place, Empire of the Sun, The Music Box, Diary of Anne Frank, etc. Because we were at home with her, we watched them, too, regardless of the fact that we were probably WAY too young to be exposed to such atrocities, particularly in a visual mode.
I vividly remember lying in my bedroom one night crying because I was so scared that someone would one day decide that we should be sent to a concentration camp, and I recall tiptoe-ing into my parents' room to receive their reassurances that it couldn't happen to us. (From my current, less naive perspective, however, I would beg to differ with their confident assertion.)
In Mom's defense, my childhood fear of the Nazis eventually led to a keen interest in the Jewish culture, so much so that I focused on Jewish Lit. for my Master's degree. And now here I am, 25 years later, exposing a new generation of children (are 16-year-olds children?) to the horrors of genocide, feeling completely inadequate for the task, yet, even so, hoping to instill in them a hatred of racial (or any kind of) prejudice, praying that I can somehow help to cause the slightest bit of decrease in the chances that this type of tragedy will ever happen again.
Off to bed soon. Pray for sweet dreams!
As a result of this influx of WWI/WWII information, my night-time visions have had mostly to do with being bombed in the trenches of France, getting carried off to Poland by the Gestapo, or being eaten by a giant raccoon. Well, okay, that last one might have more to do with reading Cal's blog than the novels I'm teaching, but whatever.
All this unrest reminds me of when I was little and my mom got on what we now refer to as her "Holocaust Kick", which is, I realize, a totally disrespectful phrase and one I probably should not put in print. My sisters and I mean no harm by it, of course, so I'll leave it here in good faith that you all will take it as such. During this period of time (I was probably about 7 or 8), she got really interested in all things related to the Nazis and the Jews, particularly if there was a movie about it. She must've rented a million films over that time: The Hiding Place, Empire of the Sun, The Music Box, Diary of Anne Frank, etc. Because we were at home with her, we watched them, too, regardless of the fact that we were probably WAY too young to be exposed to such atrocities, particularly in a visual mode.
I vividly remember lying in my bedroom one night crying because I was so scared that someone would one day decide that we should be sent to a concentration camp, and I recall tiptoe-ing into my parents' room to receive their reassurances that it couldn't happen to us. (From my current, less naive perspective, however, I would beg to differ with their confident assertion.)
In Mom's defense, my childhood fear of the Nazis eventually led to a keen interest in the Jewish culture, so much so that I focused on Jewish Lit. for my Master's degree. And now here I am, 25 years later, exposing a new generation of children (are 16-year-olds children?) to the horrors of genocide, feeling completely inadequate for the task, yet, even so, hoping to instill in them a hatred of racial (or any kind of) prejudice, praying that I can somehow help to cause the slightest bit of decrease in the chances that this type of tragedy will ever happen again.
Off to bed soon. Pray for sweet dreams!
4.08.2008
An Addendum
Add to the list in the post below another, horribly embarrassing telltale sign of age:
It's not even 5 pm, and I'm already home from eating (supper) out. Seriously.
It's not even 5 pm, and I'm already home from eating (supper) out. Seriously.
4.07.2008
Signs of Age
Lately, I've noticed more and more ways that my life is starting to resemble that of a not-so-young-anymore kind of person. For example:
1) I randomly ran into (not literally) Elizabeth the other day in the Lowe's parking lot. She was buying hardware for kitchen cabinets. I was buying plants for my garden. A far cry from our weekend in Vegas three years (!) ago.
2) I spent my spring break -- not in London -- but in absolute preoccupation with a) my niece and nephew in Destin (pictures below), and b) my perennial garden.
3) Our last big purchases were a furnace for our heater and a privacy fence for our backyard.
4) Tonight's big discussion is about our next big purchase possibilities: a burglar alarm, or weed treatment for our lawns?
5) It's 8 pm and I'm excited about bedtime.
I guess that 30th birthday of mine coming up in 2 months will be right on time.
1) I randomly ran into (not literally) Elizabeth the other day in the Lowe's parking lot. She was buying hardware for kitchen cabinets. I was buying plants for my garden. A far cry from our weekend in Vegas three years (!) ago.
2) I spent my spring break -- not in London -- but in absolute preoccupation with a) my niece and nephew in Destin (pictures below), and b) my perennial garden.
3) Our last big purchases were a furnace for our heater and a privacy fence for our backyard.
4) Tonight's big discussion is about our next big purchase possibilities: a burglar alarm, or weed treatment for our lawns?
5) It's 8 pm and I'm excited about bedtime.
I guess that 30th birthday of mine coming up in 2 months will be right on time.
4.03.2008
Hopefully, a green thumb
We are currently nearing the end of that glorious week known as Spring Break. For the first part of the holiday, Cal and I went down to Destin to spend some time on the beach and hang out with my mom, two of my sisters, and my nephew (William) and niece (Anna Claire). Despite a couple of days of bad weather, we had a great time and loved being able to spend more time with William and discover what a funny kid Anna Claire has become.
We got back Tuesday night, and Cal's dad came up yesterday afternoon to help Cal build a side to the privacy fence they started last year in our backyard. I used the occasion as motivation to work on the little garden that I started last year next to the cute little shed that the Powell boys built in the project before the fence one.
Last spring, I started out with some black-eyed susans, and, fortunately (miraculously?), 4 out of the 5 that I planted survived to this year. Not so fortunate, however, was the fact that I decided to save a little money (read: be cheap) on the rest of the garden and plant only annuals. Therefore, this year, I was left with four black-eyed susans and, well, a bunch of weedy dirt.
This spring, I committed to not making the same mistake twice. Yesterday Cal and I ventured out to the local nursery for some perennials. I have been thinking about this garden for a few weeks now (and reading every Cottage Living I could find for inspiration), and I knew exactly what I wanted. While I was looking, Cal went inside and struck up a conversation with the owner. Being the good journalist that he is, he left knowing all sorts of facts, like how long they'd been there (70-something years?) and what specific types of weed-killers they'd suggest for the small metropolitan of weeds that has sprung up in our backyard.
Anyway, I left penniless but happy, with Cal's truck loaded down with three shasta daisies, three purple coneflowers, and a dozen baby geraniums (for my window boxes). I also got a deal on two lacecap hydrangeas that the owner wanted to get rid of. I got both for HALF the price that he was asking for one of his other hydrangeas.
Tonight, I went to Lowe's and supplemented with some purple verbena and white phlox. I finished up planting my purchases about half an hour ago.
The best news of all? They're perennials. Every single one of them. Hopefully, if I did everything right, they'll come back year after year. Maybe, one day, you'll see my perennial garden on the cover of Cottage Living. A girl can dream, right?
We got back Tuesday night, and Cal's dad came up yesterday afternoon to help Cal build a side to the privacy fence they started last year in our backyard. I used the occasion as motivation to work on the little garden that I started last year next to the cute little shed that the Powell boys built in the project before the fence one.
Last spring, I started out with some black-eyed susans, and, fortunately (miraculously?), 4 out of the 5 that I planted survived to this year. Not so fortunate, however, was the fact that I decided to save a little money (read: be cheap) on the rest of the garden and plant only annuals. Therefore, this year, I was left with four black-eyed susans and, well, a bunch of weedy dirt.
This spring, I committed to not making the same mistake twice. Yesterday Cal and I ventured out to the local nursery for some perennials. I have been thinking about this garden for a few weeks now (and reading every Cottage Living I could find for inspiration), and I knew exactly what I wanted. While I was looking, Cal went inside and struck up a conversation with the owner. Being the good journalist that he is, he left knowing all sorts of facts, like how long they'd been there (70-something years?) and what specific types of weed-killers they'd suggest for the small metropolitan of weeds that has sprung up in our backyard.
Anyway, I left penniless but happy, with Cal's truck loaded down with three shasta daisies, three purple coneflowers, and a dozen baby geraniums (for my window boxes). I also got a deal on two lacecap hydrangeas that the owner wanted to get rid of. I got both for HALF the price that he was asking for one of his other hydrangeas.
Tonight, I went to Lowe's and supplemented with some purple verbena and white phlox. I finished up planting my purchases about half an hour ago.
The best news of all? They're perennials. Every single one of them. Hopefully, if I did everything right, they'll come back year after year. Maybe, one day, you'll see my perennial garden on the cover of Cottage Living. A girl can dream, right?
3.13.2008
Watching Weight
I talked to my sister, Amy, earlier, and apparently she and Mom are keeping themselves entertained at William's nightly feedings by reading aloud Cal's and my blogs. She said that Mom could hardly get through Cal's last post (about The Horse) she was laughing so hard. I figure it's time I do my auntly duty and blog, as well.
For the past two weeks, I've been doing the good ol' Weight Watchers again. For those of you who've been with me for awhile now, you know that this practice is a commonly reoccuring one in my life, particularly in the spring. I lost about 35 pounds or so 3 years ago, and about once a year since then I've had to go back in to re-lose the 5-10 lbs that somehow creep on over the winter. This time, it was more like 15, but we're not gonna talk about that.
Anyway, what I've found quite funny about my trips to the Weight Watchers meetings is that, every year that I go, the same people are there. The exact same people. The exact same -- in every size, shape, and form.
That's right, folks. When my friend Janet (who lost over 135 lbs, by the way) and I walked into that little storefront room 3 years ago last February, we met Bobbie Joe (a gourmet caterer who ended up doing the food at Janet's wedding), her friend Winnie (who always brings a big Zaxby's cup with her and sips on it the whole time, making me crave that good sweet tea), Thomas the Teacher, some other gourmet chef guy for whom I never learned a name, and two nurses who sat in the corner and cracked sarcastic jokes the whole time. Oh, and the lady who once told a story about how she ate three candy bars in her truck one day, while she was on her diet. I never learned her name, either. When I walked in the room two weeks ago? The old gang was still there.
What's amusing (and a little endearing) to me is that none of them seem to have lost a bit of weight in all that time. They pay their weekly $12, laugh off the Scary Lady behind the counter when she says with that infamous grimace, "oooooh, not such a great week this time, huh?", sit down in their regular spots, and shake their heads at each other as they all discuss how much weight they had gained. Then they smile, shrug, and say, "Well, tonight begins a new week! We'll do better!"
The meetings, I think, are their big social events of the week. They come because they relate to each other, and they like each other. It's no different from going to a bar to hang out, you know? They pay their "cover", then get a good hour and a half of visiting in without the hassle of getting all dolled up and having to shout over music and cigarette smoke.
Then, every week as we're walking back out to the cars, I overhear one saying to another, "What's your passion tonight, friend?" And the reply? "I think I'm feeling pizza!"
And off they go, starting the new week with a bang.
For the past two weeks, I've been doing the good ol' Weight Watchers again. For those of you who've been with me for awhile now, you know that this practice is a commonly reoccuring one in my life, particularly in the spring. I lost about 35 pounds or so 3 years ago, and about once a year since then I've had to go back in to re-lose the 5-10 lbs that somehow creep on over the winter. This time, it was more like 15, but we're not gonna talk about that.
Anyway, what I've found quite funny about my trips to the Weight Watchers meetings is that, every year that I go, the same people are there. The exact same people. The exact same -- in every size, shape, and form.
That's right, folks. When my friend Janet (who lost over 135 lbs, by the way) and I walked into that little storefront room 3 years ago last February, we met Bobbie Joe (a gourmet caterer who ended up doing the food at Janet's wedding), her friend Winnie (who always brings a big Zaxby's cup with her and sips on it the whole time, making me crave that good sweet tea), Thomas the Teacher, some other gourmet chef guy for whom I never learned a name, and two nurses who sat in the corner and cracked sarcastic jokes the whole time. Oh, and the lady who once told a story about how she ate three candy bars in her truck one day, while she was on her diet. I never learned her name, either. When I walked in the room two weeks ago? The old gang was still there.
What's amusing (and a little endearing) to me is that none of them seem to have lost a bit of weight in all that time. They pay their weekly $12, laugh off the Scary Lady behind the counter when she says with that infamous grimace, "oooooh, not such a great week this time, huh?", sit down in their regular spots, and shake their heads at each other as they all discuss how much weight they had gained. Then they smile, shrug, and say, "Well, tonight begins a new week! We'll do better!"
The meetings, I think, are their big social events of the week. They come because they relate to each other, and they like each other. It's no different from going to a bar to hang out, you know? They pay their "cover", then get a good hour and a half of visiting in without the hassle of getting all dolled up and having to shout over music and cigarette smoke.
Then, every week as we're walking back out to the cars, I overhear one saying to another, "What's your passion tonight, friend?" And the reply? "I think I'm feeling pizza!"
And off they go, starting the new week with a bang.
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