I thought about selling my car about a year ago. It idles pretty rough and I was never all that crazy about it. My parents picked it out after I totaled the prettiest little blue car. It had power locks and windows and a sunroof – upgrades from the pretty blue car – but I just didn’t like it as well.
I was parking in the deck at work when I first started my new job. As I would turn the many corners, the car would squeal in a chirping sort of manner. Not the tires - something from inside the engine area. It scared the hell out of people as they walked toward the exits. It embarrassed the hell out of me as I ducked my head and blushed when they’d turn to stare. The tires did need replacing (though, again, I was not squealing my tires in the parking deck. Just to be clear.) – I hadn’t had the car for all that long, but it was getting older. Might as well get something I liked more, especially since I had some money saved that I didn’t use for the move. Renting trucks and doing it all yourself, listening to family complaints all the while, saves some cash.
I went to the dealer back home with Dad and we drove two cars. Both made in 2001, like the little silver coup I was considering trading in. These had 4 doors though – I’d been driving 2 door cars for several years – being anti-social means I don’t cart people around too often. My little car got good gas mileage. Was a bit smaller so parking was easier (I’m not great at parking and worse at backing up. Though I’ve recently started watching people and have decided I’m not nearly as bad as I think they are). But the hope was that I might meet someone here in my new southern home. Amidst fantasies of taking some charming man home with me, flirting and holding hands while Chienne settled in the backseat, I started looking for sedans.
There was a yellow one with red embellishments painted on. I laughed out loud when the Chip, our sales representative, showed it to us.
Dad peered at it and pronounced it cool. Then he turned to me with a teasing smile.
“Chip,” I said after rolling my eyes at Dad. “It’s hard to tell exactly what I want. I know price range, and that I was really happy with my pretty blue Cavalier. Other than that, I’m open to seeing a lot of cars. But I know one thing. I will never drive a yellow car. I’m embarrassed that my classy silver one makes noise when it turns. So much so that I might trade it in. So the thought that people would stare at me while I drive this bright-as-the-sun beacon of gaudiness is silly. It’s great for some people. But not for me.”
Chip nodded seriously and steered me toward the more moderate looking cars. Serious cars. Not showy at all.
The black one had fewer miles. The white one had a sports package. We never did find out what that meant exactly. I think the tires were prettier and the interior was slightly different. I honestly didn’t have a strong preference. They were the same price, parked right next to each other, and I remember turning back and forth, back and forth, finally turning to shrug at Dad.
“I just don’t know.”
So he advised some time to think about it and we drove the little silver car home. I had decided to keep it – throw my savings at some credit card debt – when I turned left into my parents’ driveway and scowled at the freaking chirpy squeal.
“Screw it.” I turned to Dad decisively. “I’m getting rid of it. We’ll go back and pick a new one.”
We headed into the house to wait for Mom. She still owned (actually still owns) the silver car. When she arrived, we drove back to the dealer.
Chip was quite pleased to see us and had the white car brought up for a test drive. Why it took so long to move it 30 yards is beyond me, but whatever. We drove it and I noticed a small noise when it turned. Sensitive to such problems, I told Dad this wasn’t the right car. We took the black one out and found no blatant problems. I didn’t care for the way the plastic on the sides transitioned into the cloth above our heads. I frowned over the radio for some reason too – I can’t really remember why.
I’m decisive even when there’s underlying uncertainty, so we pressed on. I decided on the black car and Chip found an extra chair while I sat with my parents. Someone had taken the little silver car out for a drive while they determined the appropriate trade-in value. I felt a pang of guilt – I hate getting rid of cars. They become part of my life and I appreciate them taking me places safely. So I feel really badly when we trade them in, though it’s better than wrecking them. I’ve watched two get towed away and sobbed both times, feeling miserable over ruining cars that had saved me from injury in accidents.
Chip, after telling us how he’d started in sales, how he commuted from a nearby town, his future plans in the dealership, left us at his desk to find out what we’d get for the silver car.
I looked at Mom as we sat and waited, face obviously showing some concern.
“Are you sure you want something new?” She asked, noting my painful reaction to letting my car go.
“It’s been a good car.” I explained. “But that noise is awful. I really hate the noise.”
“You could get that fixed. It’s still under warranty.” Dad offered, stirring his coffee and looking bored. We’d waited forever throughout the test drive, choose car, get trade value process.
I nodded – not bored at all – worrying over whether I wanted a new car at all, let alone the black one we’d chosen.
“I want it to be easy.” I confessed. “That they either make a really bad offer and we leave or it’s a really good offer and I can take it and be pleased with the deal.”
“It’s seldom easy.” Mom said, trying as she often does to prepare me for the worst.
It’s not particularly easy right now. I don’t know how to make sure I’m doing the right things at the right time. Should I be looking harder for someone to date? Force myself past a crush that I still sometimes flutter over? Should I start looking for another job? Or work like crazy to make this one come together more quickly? Balance seems important. So I’ve spent time on the phone lately – hours, in fact. Friends and family – people I love and who can make me laugh and sigh and try to articulate all these feelings that seem overwhelming lately. So I’m falling behind on answering comments and email. Not writing as well as I wish I was – I’m having important thoughts lately, but they’re hardly original.
I do know I’m sad and confused. I was told in a recent email that big decisions were likely unwise at this point. That I needed to recover. Settle a bit. Then review my life and see how I feel about something. What I want to change or fix or leave alone.
Chip came back and offered $840 for my car. We’d looked it up online and decided $4400 was fair. So I recoiled from the paper he presented and gasped with indignation. Then I looked at Mom and smiled.
“It’s easy.” I said. “I’m keeping the little silver car.” Then I told Chip the offer was insultingly low, apologized for wasting his time, and headed toward the exit. He and his manager, upon trying to block our exit, were subjected to Mom’s irritation over having wasted our time and not making a reasonable offer on a car we’d purchased there only a year earlier. I left feeling a bit angry, but upon unlocking my car, I laughed a bit. Sometimes looking at what’s out there makes you appreciate what you have. Other times you realize you never needed to look at all. Then there are those occasions when a change is in order.
I can’t figure it out right now. I do know I fixed my car – no squealing noises when I turn corners. It was some sort of air intake blockage (I actually have no idea, but if you picture me saying “air intake blockage” with great confidence, you might believe it) and was rapidly repaired. I bought new tires for $300 rather than the $1500 I wanted to spend on a new car that would have its own set of problems. So while it’s not always easy, it does tend to work out for the best.
Eventually.
At least that’s the hope.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
I like...
I listened to something on my iPod when returning home from my parents’ yesterday. I bought it some time ago and just never got to it. So for a little over two hours, I drove far too fast and did some thinking about the human condition. Considered 13 brief interviews on how we busy ourselves in an attempt to make some difference, make sense of the bad things that happen to and around us, what happens after death, what we know and what we can learn. It was interesting and appropriate.
There was one interview on blessings by M.J. Ryan. I haven’t cried a great deal lately – have been quite close on several occasions, but pull back from it. So through these interviews where some basic truths were shared, I found myself mildly moved a couple times, but cried only once.
The author spoke of her father. He lay dying in the hospital, suffering, and she asked if it was worth it. I’ll paraphrase, but he said something about how life was good. How he liked looking at the comics in the paper. Watching ballgames on TV. It was worth it because he could still find ways to be content. Reasons for gratitude.
I cried then.
I'm profoundly blessed. But sometimes it's the little things that get me through some days.
Veronica shared some of her favorite Dorothy Parker quotes today, and I smiled. I don’t often read “real” books. Have tended toward romance novels more often than not, and adore them. But back in the day, Dryden mentioned Parker was worth a read. Wanting very much to impress Dryden in some way, I happily clicked over to amazon and ordered a collection of her stories and poetry.
I was surprised at how much I liked it. Read a story and smiled, making a mental note to spend more time with the book. Then one rainy afternoon, I had nothing of note to do. So I turned off my television, took a long shower, put on pretty pajamas and a fluffy pink robe. I lit a candle – I’m big on smells – and snuggled on the couch with a glass of wine and my book. I sighed and giggled and turned pages, skipping over the poetry to find more stories. I like stories better.
It was perfect. A lazy afternoon full of words and classical music and a light scent of roses and herbs. I kept waiting for myself to get bored – realize I’m not at all cool and don’t really enjoy wine or Mozart or short stories when all alone – but found that I was completely content in those hours. Didn’t want to do work or check email or take a walk. I liked sipping white wine, reading and listening to music play over a rainy afternoon.
That’s part of what I love about interacting with people online. Book recommendations. I read Fight Club because Veronica loves it. I love it too. Pickwick Papers was another of Dryden’s. I'll confess to working through parts of it slowly, but I adored it. Night Soldiers was from a post of Rob’s. Deep in the Shade of Paradise showed up on Writing It Slant, and is waiting next to my couch right now.
Then on days when I’m sad, I smile over posts. Reading your words directly rather than the ones you like to read yourselves. I click on sites in bloglines with great interest or affection or both. I like reading blogs. I like writing mine.
I like approving proofs. I also like revising papers that have been accepted.
I liked Cars. I cooed at the cute parts and laughed at the funny parts.
I don’t like migraines, which I seem to get when I watch movies in theaters. I do, however, enjoy Tylenol PM. It eases the misery of pounding headaches quite quickly. And makes me sleep. I like sleep.
I like minty lip gloss. It’s pale pink and makes my lips warm. It’s tasty too, not that I’ve been kissed lately. But the slight tingle it causes reminds me that eventually there might be someone to kiss. And I found the lip gloss on sale, so I now have 5 tubes. So he has a little time to find me yet.
I also like good hand soap. I have the herb one for my kitchen. Cherry blossom is in my master bath, and cotton blossom for the guest bathroom.
Speaking of my guest bath, I giggle when I go in there too. When Chienne cowered from the scary fireworks, she – for whatever reason – settled in the bathtub. I shrugged, turned on the fan for white noise and threw some towels in. Now she just hangs out in there. Wags her tail when I walk down the hall, so I go in and pat her head (and take pictures to show you).
I also like the photo meme that’s going around. Honestly? I love all memes, though I don’t participate. It makes me feel like I’m trying to fit in with the cool kids, and I haven’t been good at that lately. I also would be surprised if anyone had photo requests, which is why I’ve tucked this at the bottom of my post. But should you want to see any of my stuff – all the romance novels I speak of, more of the puppy (because she’s such a pretty girl!), my beloved love seat, one of my 13 clocks (there might be more, but I can think of 13. Apparently I also like knowing what time it is.), just ask. I’ll be happy to share and give myself a bit more time to settle back into life.
Until then, there are many things that make me smile. Remembering that is good enough for today.
There was one interview on blessings by M.J. Ryan. I haven’t cried a great deal lately – have been quite close on several occasions, but pull back from it. So through these interviews where some basic truths were shared, I found myself mildly moved a couple times, but cried only once.
The author spoke of her father. He lay dying in the hospital, suffering, and she asked if it was worth it. I’ll paraphrase, but he said something about how life was good. How he liked looking at the comics in the paper. Watching ballgames on TV. It was worth it because he could still find ways to be content. Reasons for gratitude.
I cried then.
I'm profoundly blessed. But sometimes it's the little things that get me through some days.
Veronica shared some of her favorite Dorothy Parker quotes today, and I smiled. I don’t often read “real” books. Have tended toward romance novels more often than not, and adore them. But back in the day, Dryden mentioned Parker was worth a read. Wanting very much to impress Dryden in some way, I happily clicked over to amazon and ordered a collection of her stories and poetry.
I was surprised at how much I liked it. Read a story and smiled, making a mental note to spend more time with the book. Then one rainy afternoon, I had nothing of note to do. So I turned off my television, took a long shower, put on pretty pajamas and a fluffy pink robe. I lit a candle – I’m big on smells – and snuggled on the couch with a glass of wine and my book. I sighed and giggled and turned pages, skipping over the poetry to find more stories. I like stories better.
It was perfect. A lazy afternoon full of words and classical music and a light scent of roses and herbs. I kept waiting for myself to get bored – realize I’m not at all cool and don’t really enjoy wine or Mozart or short stories when all alone – but found that I was completely content in those hours. Didn’t want to do work or check email or take a walk. I liked sipping white wine, reading and listening to music play over a rainy afternoon.
That’s part of what I love about interacting with people online. Book recommendations. I read Fight Club because Veronica loves it. I love it too. Pickwick Papers was another of Dryden’s. I'll confess to working through parts of it slowly, but I adored it. Night Soldiers was from a post of Rob’s. Deep in the Shade of Paradise showed up on Writing It Slant, and is waiting next to my couch right now.
Then on days when I’m sad, I smile over posts. Reading your words directly rather than the ones you like to read yourselves. I click on sites in bloglines with great interest or affection or both. I like reading blogs. I like writing mine.
I like approving proofs. I also like revising papers that have been accepted.
I liked Cars. I cooed at the cute parts and laughed at the funny parts.
I don’t like migraines, which I seem to get when I watch movies in theaters. I do, however, enjoy Tylenol PM. It eases the misery of pounding headaches quite quickly. And makes me sleep. I like sleep.
I like minty lip gloss. It’s pale pink and makes my lips warm. It’s tasty too, not that I’ve been kissed lately. But the slight tingle it causes reminds me that eventually there might be someone to kiss. And I found the lip gloss on sale, so I now have 5 tubes. So he has a little time to find me yet.
I also like good hand soap. I have the herb one for my kitchen. Cherry blossom is in my master bath, and cotton blossom for the guest bathroom.
Speaking of my guest bath, I giggle when I go in there too. When Chienne cowered from the scary fireworks, she – for whatever reason – settled in the bathtub. I shrugged, turned on the fan for white noise and threw some towels in. Now she just hangs out in there. Wags her tail when I walk down the hall, so I go in and pat her head (and take pictures to show you).I also like the photo meme that’s going around. Honestly? I love all memes, though I don’t participate. It makes me feel like I’m trying to fit in with the cool kids, and I haven’t been good at that lately. I also would be surprised if anyone had photo requests, which is why I’ve tucked this at the bottom of my post. But should you want to see any of my stuff – all the romance novels I speak of, more of the puppy (because she’s such a pretty girl!), my beloved love seat, one of my 13 clocks (there might be more, but I can think of 13. Apparently I also like knowing what time it is.), just ask. I’ll be happy to share and give myself a bit more time to settle back into life.
Until then, there are many things that make me smile. Remembering that is good enough for today.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Hello. How's it going?
I'm back from a lovely weekend at home. I listened to music and sang on the way there. Then rubbed at my chest when I wondered if Winnie had been happy on her trip the week before.
Chienne decided to ignore my request that she wait in the car while I went inside a gas station. Instead, she slipped by me, sans leash, and ran around an empty field. When I called her? She just pranced a bit more, ignoring me and preening for the people who were watching with various degrees of amusement and concern. If I follow, she'll run farther. I think after being raised with trips to the dog park, she feels safe when I'm following her around and will sprint until she's exhausted.
So I walked back to the car, hearing the jingle of my tags as she followed me. I turned to get her and she swept past me, the car, then the building on her way to another field. She returned to me only when I hid behind a van and called her. It was stressful and I was furious. So I lectured on appropriate behavior on road trips for a good 30 minutes. Neither of us enjoyed it.
The Little One arrived with my parents shortly after I got there. We played and talked. It's rather stunning to me that she really understands what I'm saying. I mean, I've talked to my dog for years and she only knows a few words. That lecture I gave after the gas station? Went right over her brindled little head. But the Little One looks at you while she listens then responds in a way that indicates complete comprehension.
Oh! And she learned to say my name! I'm so flattered and pleased. Though I can get an "Aunt Kat" or "Katie" not "Aunt Katie." But it's good to have goals - she'll get it sooner or later. She's also quite stubborn. Big on "No!" and "Go!" and "Mine!" which... Honestly? It gets a bit tiresome. But she's adorable and smart and wonderful.
There's more, but this isn't my best post ever. I'm sleepy and sore and scattered from being in the car for so long. So I'll tell a story tomorrow - I have some ideas. But I missed you guys. I'm going to catch up with your news and share mine tomorrow afternoon.
I've also been bad about responding directly to comments (and some email - so unlike me) but I very much appreciate your thoughts lately. Thank you.
Chienne decided to ignore my request that she wait in the car while I went inside a gas station. Instead, she slipped by me, sans leash, and ran around an empty field. When I called her? She just pranced a bit more, ignoring me and preening for the people who were watching with various degrees of amusement and concern. If I follow, she'll run farther. I think after being raised with trips to the dog park, she feels safe when I'm following her around and will sprint until she's exhausted.
So I walked back to the car, hearing the jingle of my tags as she followed me. I turned to get her and she swept past me, the car, then the building on her way to another field. She returned to me only when I hid behind a van and called her. It was stressful and I was furious. So I lectured on appropriate behavior on road trips for a good 30 minutes. Neither of us enjoyed it.
The Little One arrived with my parents shortly after I got there. We played and talked. It's rather stunning to me that she really understands what I'm saying. I mean, I've talked to my dog for years and she only knows a few words. That lecture I gave after the gas station? Went right over her brindled little head. But the Little One looks at you while she listens then responds in a way that indicates complete comprehension.
Oh! And she learned to say my name! I'm so flattered and pleased. Though I can get an "Aunt Kat" or "Katie" not "Aunt Katie." But it's good to have goals - she'll get it sooner or later. She's also quite stubborn. Big on "No!" and "Go!" and "Mine!" which... Honestly? It gets a bit tiresome. But she's adorable and smart and wonderful.
There's more, but this isn't my best post ever. I'm sleepy and sore and scattered from being in the car for so long. So I'll tell a story tomorrow - I have some ideas. But I missed you guys. I'm going to catch up with your news and share mine tomorrow afternoon.
I've also been bad about responding directly to comments (and some email - so unlike me) but I very much appreciate your thoughts lately. Thank you.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
A Short Break
I got email from a friend a few days ago. He'd been without internet for about a week and realized how many other activities he enjoyed. I felt a twinge because of all the things I enjoy, the ways I relax and cope with stress, reading blogs and sending email are near the top of the list.
In an interesting twist, Thing #1 was right. 100 Things posts are a threat to anonymity. Within days, someone had correctly identified where I currently work. She was sweet and worried I'd take it badly. While it is a little strange - especially as I confirmed her guess, not wanting her to feel at all badly for offering her condolences on my friend - removing the blog (or even any entries) didn't seem at all tempting.
There was a parking structure on my undergraduate campus. After dark, these mesh gates lowered and the stairway doors locked to restrict access to the building. Once you swiped your ID, the gates would open and you could drive in or out. Elle's boyfriend at the time, an adorable guy, was an engineer.
"That gate is stupid." He said, leaning forward from the back seat and examining it. "I wonder if we could alter the machine to let anyone in."
"No idea." I said, smiling when Elle asked me if I was sure I really wanted to be an engineer. Wondered over my utter lack of curiosity for the little swiping machine.
"I guess we could always just cut the metal." He mused.
"Why would you want to take it down? The university would be mad. They put it up for a reason."
"Well, I'd take it down for a reason." He said, and I smiled, enjoying him and his answer.
In the wake of profound events - the death of a friend, a peer, someone I identified with a great deal - life feels a bit random. Futile. It doesn't make much sense. I've read my past couple entries and they ramble. I see that you're getting my point, but in making it, I'm redundant. Even more than usual. Which speaks to my state of mind, I guess, but it's a bit uncomfortable for me to read.
In terms of the blog, I put it up for a reason. Like that parking garage gate, I'm not sure exactly what the reason was. The gate was for safety, I guess. Insurance purposes. Protection against a relatively bad neighborhood surrounding campus. The blog helps me cope. Provides me access to some people I like a lot. Perhaps gives someone an idea that I'm struggling too. I know from Winnie that seeing someone have experiences like my own is a significant comfort. If I can give a small portion of that to someone, that's worthwhile. It's important to me.
Perhaps a bit too important lately. I don't know - feel small and unimportant, yet heavy with sadness and regret - for Winnie's lost potential or the idea that I'll waste my chance at reaching my own goals, I'm not sure. I'm hoping that heading north to my parents' will offer some clarity. I'm leaving the laptop behind (and I even think I mean it! Seriously!), though I can use their ancient desktop while there. So I'm going to laugh with the Little One, get hugs that I desperately need, help paint the kitchen, take walks around the route I've used for 20 years or so.
I understand that I need to let the hurt linger. You all understand too, and that's lovely and comforting. I also accept that I tend toward extreme introversion at times like this. Withdraw and wallow. Yet I have important things left to do. Professional and personal. And much as I draw comfort from long walks with Chienne, naps throughout the day because I'm not sleeping well at night, TNT (They do, in fact, know drama.), and waiting patiently for you all to write something new for me to read, it's not exactly productive.
I'm hoping that a few days with parents who don't believe much in wallowing will help me move on from here. Until then, I still don't know exactly what to say. Perhaps this weekend will help me figure it out.
In an interesting twist, Thing #1 was right. 100 Things posts are a threat to anonymity. Within days, someone had correctly identified where I currently work. She was sweet and worried I'd take it badly. While it is a little strange - especially as I confirmed her guess, not wanting her to feel at all badly for offering her condolences on my friend - removing the blog (or even any entries) didn't seem at all tempting.
There was a parking structure on my undergraduate campus. After dark, these mesh gates lowered and the stairway doors locked to restrict access to the building. Once you swiped your ID, the gates would open and you could drive in or out. Elle's boyfriend at the time, an adorable guy, was an engineer.
"That gate is stupid." He said, leaning forward from the back seat and examining it. "I wonder if we could alter the machine to let anyone in."
"No idea." I said, smiling when Elle asked me if I was sure I really wanted to be an engineer. Wondered over my utter lack of curiosity for the little swiping machine.
"I guess we could always just cut the metal." He mused.
"Why would you want to take it down? The university would be mad. They put it up for a reason."
"Well, I'd take it down for a reason." He said, and I smiled, enjoying him and his answer.
In the wake of profound events - the death of a friend, a peer, someone I identified with a great deal - life feels a bit random. Futile. It doesn't make much sense. I've read my past couple entries and they ramble. I see that you're getting my point, but in making it, I'm redundant. Even more than usual. Which speaks to my state of mind, I guess, but it's a bit uncomfortable for me to read.
In terms of the blog, I put it up for a reason. Like that parking garage gate, I'm not sure exactly what the reason was. The gate was for safety, I guess. Insurance purposes. Protection against a relatively bad neighborhood surrounding campus. The blog helps me cope. Provides me access to some people I like a lot. Perhaps gives someone an idea that I'm struggling too. I know from Winnie that seeing someone have experiences like my own is a significant comfort. If I can give a small portion of that to someone, that's worthwhile. It's important to me.
Perhaps a bit too important lately. I don't know - feel small and unimportant, yet heavy with sadness and regret - for Winnie's lost potential or the idea that I'll waste my chance at reaching my own goals, I'm not sure. I'm hoping that heading north to my parents' will offer some clarity. I'm leaving the laptop behind (and I even think I mean it! Seriously!), though I can use their ancient desktop while there. So I'm going to laugh with the Little One, get hugs that I desperately need, help paint the kitchen, take walks around the route I've used for 20 years or so.
I understand that I need to let the hurt linger. You all understand too, and that's lovely and comforting. I also accept that I tend toward extreme introversion at times like this. Withdraw and wallow. Yet I have important things left to do. Professional and personal. And much as I draw comfort from long walks with Chienne, naps throughout the day because I'm not sleeping well at night, TNT (They do, in fact, know drama.), and waiting patiently for you all to write something new for me to read, it's not exactly productive.
I'm hoping that a few days with parents who don't believe much in wallowing will help me move on from here. Until then, I still don't know exactly what to say. Perhaps this weekend will help me figure it out.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Magnets
I have a toy on my desk. Romp – a slender plastic pendulum has a magnet on the free end. There are concentric circles painted on the silver base, and little magnets that I can move around – make the pendulum move in different directions.
I don’t play with it very often. Pulled it out of its corner today as I lost focus on work and flicked it to set it in motion. Watched it blankly for a few minutes, nudging the magnets on the base to see if it would swing a bit longer before coming to rest.
I noticed it was dusty, so I pulled the magnets off and held them in one hand. I rubbed the other hand across the silver metal, then placed it back on my desk. Let gravity alone control the swinging magnet for a moment. But I wasn’t going to carry the base magnets around with me, so I started to put them back.
My knowledge of Physics should give me some plan in placing these magnets, I think. But I had none. Staring at the system, I decided to create a repellent zone in front of the support structure. It’s noisy when the pendulum hits the larger support bar and I don’t like noise. Three magnets created what I thought would be sufficient force to avoid that collision.
Then I stared at the six magnets left in my hand, tempted to just leave them stacked on the corner of my little toy. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with them. So I set them down, watched the swinging magnet drift rapidly toward them then quiver, attracted but unable to reach its goal.
I returned to my papers and sighed heavily. I’m beginning to think it’s rather common – at least in my little field – to leave grad school with some things left to do. Move on, start something new, but we’re trained to multi-task. As I try (and fail) to become hyper-productive in my new work, creating opportunities for future publication, I should also be writing up old work, revising, dealing with the rejections, trying to find new journals, facing the terror that if my old work isn’t good enough, my new work likely won’t be either. Winnie and I talked about that too. Looking miserably at our CVs and wondering how this was all going to come together.
I’m grateful I have the chance to finish more work. I really am. While I’m often bored – think it’s tedious and frustrating and get lost in details that seem important yet overwhelming – I think my work has the potential to be quite important. That’s why I do it. It doesn’t feed my soul. It provides an income – not a trivial component. But it also could help people who need help. If some combination of knowledge – mine, my collaborators, authors of papers I read and mimic – can increase their time with family or quality of life, can decrease the risk of recurrence, can predict the initial occurrence of disease so the misery that is cancer treatment can be avoided… That’s a good enough reason to work.
But the truth is that there’s a large selfish component for me. I’d like to say that my only motivation is patient outcome. That might make me a pretty good person. Instead, I’m battling for authorship order. Holding some papers that should have been published – that might play a small role in providing some insight to people who are working faster than I am. I make sure collaborators have a good idea of time commitments so that when author order is decided, I have an argument for why I should be higher. I spend time – significant time lately – poring over a proof for one paper and tweaking wording on another. Work that’s long since been completed and isn’t, in all likelihood, all that important. Well, to anyone but me. I crave those lines on my CV. Need the validation of seeing my name, my words and figures, in print.
I didn’t want to feel selfish, so I turned away from my pretty monitor and neatly stacked paper, and returned to my little toy, pushing the pendulum to watch it swing. I pulled the stack of magnets apart – they’re pretty strong – and placed them around the outside in a loose ring. Then I pushed the stick to the left and noticed the pattern wasn’t very interesting. No sudden swings or unexpected turns. Just a gentle circle as it swung easily, feeling the pull from the various magnets, but not overly attracted to any specific direction. I nudged one closer to the center and watched the swinging magnet react dramatically.
I watched it for a long time, occasionally pushing it one direction or another when it slowed. Pulling or pushing the magnets on the silver base to see what happened. Let my thoughts drift, thinking about nothing in particular, acknowledging I ached with sadness and accepting that it was appropriate for now. It should hurt. Losing Winnie – regardless of how close we were, how much I liked and admired her, her potential, her current feelings about her academic life – is a truly sad event. I’m deeply sorry over it.
It matters.
But it doesn’t seem to matter enough. People continue to smile at each other in the hall. I return greetings and respond with a “Fine, and you?” when people outside the department ask how I am. They don’t know about Winnie, and I feel too fragile to inform them. Is that wrong? Should they know so they can feel sorry too? I found myself blinking back tears several times today though, didn’t want to end up wiping at my eyes in the hallway while someone was trying to do their own work. Have thoughts that we should care more – stop for a moment and acknowledge the awful event in some profound way. But we continue, do what we do. Revise papers and look over consent forms. Schedule meetings, talk to people, have a vague idea of some lofty goal that sometimes gets lost in my competitive urge to make my CV a bit prettier.
The pendulum is held to the base by a piece of fishing line. Flexible and rather sturdy. Yet transparent and somehow fragile. I remember reading the directions when I first got the toy years ago. The line will eventually snap. Even if you do your best to place the magnets carefully, set the swinging magnet into motion gently and with great care, at some point – no way to tell when – that slender thread will break.
The thought that it would break during a bad time. One with erratic motion – the swinging magnet feels ugly and confused and has no idea where it’s going next. The hope is that this postdoctoral angst is worthwhile. That these papers are going to be published, pages will be added to the CV, we’ll learn and grow and figure ourselves out. Get some semblance of a social life. Find a husband, or if one has been obtained, find time to spend with him. Have children and teach them. Sing songs, read stories, watch silly cartoons. I picture the swinging magnet moving gracefully as the base magnets pull gently in a more balanced pattern. So the goal for now is to nudge those magnets. Try to find a pattern that works. Understand that while it sucks for now – there are periods of depression or anxiety, loneliness or inadequacies I sometimes wonder desperately if I’ll overcome - I hope I'm working toward something amazing.
We, as academics or professionals or parents or just people, accept that sometimes life is hard. There are times when it’s painful but you hope you’re learning and making progress and that eventually it will get better. That I’ll eventually arrange my magnets in a more pleasant pattern.
Winnie deserved a beautiful pattern. I hate that she didn’t get to see her work come together. Wanted to cry when I got my proof via email because it was a lovely feeling for me. She should have had it as well. Feel somehow guilty that I continue to make progress, am busy trying to nudge these magnets around, when I feel I should be doing something to indicate that her loss matters to me.
I don’t play with it very often. Pulled it out of its corner today as I lost focus on work and flicked it to set it in motion. Watched it blankly for a few minutes, nudging the magnets on the base to see if it would swing a bit longer before coming to rest.
I noticed it was dusty, so I pulled the magnets off and held them in one hand. I rubbed the other hand across the silver metal, then placed it back on my desk. Let gravity alone control the swinging magnet for a moment. But I wasn’t going to carry the base magnets around with me, so I started to put them back.
My knowledge of Physics should give me some plan in placing these magnets, I think. But I had none. Staring at the system, I decided to create a repellent zone in front of the support structure. It’s noisy when the pendulum hits the larger support bar and I don’t like noise. Three magnets created what I thought would be sufficient force to avoid that collision.
Then I stared at the six magnets left in my hand, tempted to just leave them stacked on the corner of my little toy. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with them. So I set them down, watched the swinging magnet drift rapidly toward them then quiver, attracted but unable to reach its goal.
I returned to my papers and sighed heavily. I’m beginning to think it’s rather common – at least in my little field – to leave grad school with some things left to do. Move on, start something new, but we’re trained to multi-task. As I try (and fail) to become hyper-productive in my new work, creating opportunities for future publication, I should also be writing up old work, revising, dealing with the rejections, trying to find new journals, facing the terror that if my old work isn’t good enough, my new work likely won’t be either. Winnie and I talked about that too. Looking miserably at our CVs and wondering how this was all going to come together.
I’m grateful I have the chance to finish more work. I really am. While I’m often bored – think it’s tedious and frustrating and get lost in details that seem important yet overwhelming – I think my work has the potential to be quite important. That’s why I do it. It doesn’t feed my soul. It provides an income – not a trivial component. But it also could help people who need help. If some combination of knowledge – mine, my collaborators, authors of papers I read and mimic – can increase their time with family or quality of life, can decrease the risk of recurrence, can predict the initial occurrence of disease so the misery that is cancer treatment can be avoided… That’s a good enough reason to work.
But the truth is that there’s a large selfish component for me. I’d like to say that my only motivation is patient outcome. That might make me a pretty good person. Instead, I’m battling for authorship order. Holding some papers that should have been published – that might play a small role in providing some insight to people who are working faster than I am. I make sure collaborators have a good idea of time commitments so that when author order is decided, I have an argument for why I should be higher. I spend time – significant time lately – poring over a proof for one paper and tweaking wording on another. Work that’s long since been completed and isn’t, in all likelihood, all that important. Well, to anyone but me. I crave those lines on my CV. Need the validation of seeing my name, my words and figures, in print.
I didn’t want to feel selfish, so I turned away from my pretty monitor and neatly stacked paper, and returned to my little toy, pushing the pendulum to watch it swing. I pulled the stack of magnets apart – they’re pretty strong – and placed them around the outside in a loose ring. Then I pushed the stick to the left and noticed the pattern wasn’t very interesting. No sudden swings or unexpected turns. Just a gentle circle as it swung easily, feeling the pull from the various magnets, but not overly attracted to any specific direction. I nudged one closer to the center and watched the swinging magnet react dramatically.
I watched it for a long time, occasionally pushing it one direction or another when it slowed. Pulling or pushing the magnets on the silver base to see what happened. Let my thoughts drift, thinking about nothing in particular, acknowledging I ached with sadness and accepting that it was appropriate for now. It should hurt. Losing Winnie – regardless of how close we were, how much I liked and admired her, her potential, her current feelings about her academic life – is a truly sad event. I’m deeply sorry over it.
It matters.
But it doesn’t seem to matter enough. People continue to smile at each other in the hall. I return greetings and respond with a “Fine, and you?” when people outside the department ask how I am. They don’t know about Winnie, and I feel too fragile to inform them. Is that wrong? Should they know so they can feel sorry too? I found myself blinking back tears several times today though, didn’t want to end up wiping at my eyes in the hallway while someone was trying to do their own work. Have thoughts that we should care more – stop for a moment and acknowledge the awful event in some profound way. But we continue, do what we do. Revise papers and look over consent forms. Schedule meetings, talk to people, have a vague idea of some lofty goal that sometimes gets lost in my competitive urge to make my CV a bit prettier.
The pendulum is held to the base by a piece of fishing line. Flexible and rather sturdy. Yet transparent and somehow fragile. I remember reading the directions when I first got the toy years ago. The line will eventually snap. Even if you do your best to place the magnets carefully, set the swinging magnet into motion gently and with great care, at some point – no way to tell when – that slender thread will break.
The thought that it would break during a bad time. One with erratic motion – the swinging magnet feels ugly and confused and has no idea where it’s going next. The hope is that this postdoctoral angst is worthwhile. That these papers are going to be published, pages will be added to the CV, we’ll learn and grow and figure ourselves out. Get some semblance of a social life. Find a husband, or if one has been obtained, find time to spend with him. Have children and teach them. Sing songs, read stories, watch silly cartoons. I picture the swinging magnet moving gracefully as the base magnets pull gently in a more balanced pattern. So the goal for now is to nudge those magnets. Try to find a pattern that works. Understand that while it sucks for now – there are periods of depression or anxiety, loneliness or inadequacies I sometimes wonder desperately if I’ll overcome - I hope I'm working toward something amazing.
We, as academics or professionals or parents or just people, accept that sometimes life is hard. There are times when it’s painful but you hope you’re learning and making progress and that eventually it will get better. That I’ll eventually arrange my magnets in a more pleasant pattern.
Winnie deserved a beautiful pattern. I hate that she didn’t get to see her work come together. Wanted to cry when I got my proof via email because it was a lovely feeling for me. She should have had it as well. Feel somehow guilty that I continue to make progress, am busy trying to nudge these magnets around, when I feel I should be doing something to indicate that her loss matters to me.
Monday, July 03, 2006
With deep sadness
I had a meeting today and arrived to find the parking lot relatively empty. Upon reading a sign informing me of the lack of parking rules for the holiday, I proceeded to a spot much closer to my building and left my car there.
I congratulated myself on my lightweight blouse, frowning only slightly when I noticed it was quite sheer. Apparently I have a habit of wearing nearly transparent clothing of late. I pushed my way through hot humidity toward the office, pleased that I wasn't perspiring too much. A quick check in the mirror confirmed that this shirt was borderline inappropriate, but my hair and make-up survived the hike to my desk.
I woke up my computer and changed my calendar over to July, saying good-bye to the baby giraffes and hello to the baby deer peeking through yellow flowers. I thought briefly that if I told you about the baby deer, I'd look up the appropriate name for it. Dog:Puppy as Cat:Kitten as Deer:something other than baby deer.
I didn't get to google it.
Instead I made a text file for my meeting and headed over to talk to a faculty member, Tim, about some results before I met with a group outside my speciality this afternoon. I'm the only one of us going, so I wanted to touch base, confirm my conclusions, glance through my data.
As I stood there, just beginning to look down at the graphs I brought with me, my boss - kind and wise and lovely - entered the office, and I automatically smiled to greet him.
"Hello!" I said, not waiting for him to return my greeting. I'm nothing if not efficient. "I was just going to go over some of this histogram data. You have good timing!" Then I stopped because my happy statement was met with a relatively blank stare.
"I have some bad news for you." He said, and I glanced at Tim, still seated behind his desk. He looked away and I returned my increasingly concerned stare to my boss, cocking my head. Saying nothing.
Waiting.
"We think Winnie was killed in an accident this weekend." Then he paused to gather himself while I clutched my papers tighter.
I blinked rapidly and asked softly, "We think? Or we know?"
"Her other department called this morning." He said, and I noted tears in his eyes and closed my own briefly in an attempt at dignity. "They seemed sure, but I've been unable to confirm it."
I looked down, then asked if her children were rumored to be with her. He said not, and I nodded.
"I'm sorry." I whispered, though it wasn't directed toward either of the men in the room. But it was a true statement - I am deeply sorry.
"You'll let me know if you hear differently. If it isn't true." I said at the same time he stated that we'd try to get something together for her family.
He pressed his lips together upon hearing my request, and nodded. "I'll find out as much as I can today." Then he left, leaving me alone with Tim.
I met his eyes momentarily, looked down, and swallowed. "I don't know what to say." I offered, hugging myself tightly, blinking back tears.
"Yeah..." He sighed, shaking his head. "We can go over that later." He nodded at the papers clutched to my chest.
"Yes." I nodded, took a couple steps away. "Of course. Thank you."
I made my way to a rest room, washing my hands and listening to the water run. It soothes me. I gave myself a moment beofre wiping my eyes and telling myself to assume it was a misunderstanding. Then I returned to my desk.
I kept working. Answering email. Making calls. Trying to arrange meetings for the remainder of this week and next to make sure everything's arranged - ready to start - planned. And my hands shake because Winnie likely did the same thing on many days. Arranged notes in binders so she could find them later. Noted meetings in calendars for when she got back from her trip. Mapped out a grant she'd submit in October - I hadn't yet emailed her my files so she could work from an example. She was finishing papers to fill holes in her CV. She looked forward to spending more time with her children and husband. She'd had an appointment about some health concerns. I was going to ask her about it the next time I saw her.
I wrote email to Dryden last night - mentioned that someone had drowned near my house. How awful that must be - to go for a day with friends and never return. How terrible it would be to expect someone to return - to have no reason not to be ready to see him or her - and to learn that wasn't happening.
I watched The King and I once on television. I started to get upset when it didn't look so good for the king. Threatened to stop watching. Mom told me it would be fine - that he'd awaken and begin to dance. He didn't. I cried. Sometimes it doesn't turn out the way you wanted. Likewise, as I comforted myself with the thought of rumors, I was prepared when I checked in before leaving. Boss would have details of the services soon, he said. He did have more details of the accident.
I'm completely sorry and deeply regret that she's gone. We'd spoken recently of the impact our work was to make. How we'd improve outcome for cancer patients and that the long hours, stress and time away from family and friends were somehow worthwhile. It was a struggle, yes, but one that seemed worthy of our time and attention.
She was beautiful. Friendly and genuine and welcoming and funny. She stopped to ease my nerves before my talk, explaining some concept I was too nervous to grasp. I assumed I'd just ask her to tell me again sometime, trade knowledge we'd gained through years of education. Offer additional support through trying to navigate the academic world, though we were too busy to become real friends.
I don't know what to say, other than to let you know that I think the research community lost an incredible member, for this was a surprisingly, profoundly sad day. I've avoided close friendships since arriving here - the knowledge that I'll leave in the relatively near future keeps me pretty contained. But I'll miss her - wish that I'd made more time, looked a little closer, and been more aware that some relationships are more fleeting than I expected.
I'm just so very sorry. And sad. And this is one of the few times that writing it down didn't help at all.
I congratulated myself on my lightweight blouse, frowning only slightly when I noticed it was quite sheer. Apparently I have a habit of wearing nearly transparent clothing of late. I pushed my way through hot humidity toward the office, pleased that I wasn't perspiring too much. A quick check in the mirror confirmed that this shirt was borderline inappropriate, but my hair and make-up survived the hike to my desk.
I woke up my computer and changed my calendar over to July, saying good-bye to the baby giraffes and hello to the baby deer peeking through yellow flowers. I thought briefly that if I told you about the baby deer, I'd look up the appropriate name for it. Dog:Puppy as Cat:Kitten as Deer:something other than baby deer.
I didn't get to google it.
Instead I made a text file for my meeting and headed over to talk to a faculty member, Tim, about some results before I met with a group outside my speciality this afternoon. I'm the only one of us going, so I wanted to touch base, confirm my conclusions, glance through my data.
As I stood there, just beginning to look down at the graphs I brought with me, my boss - kind and wise and lovely - entered the office, and I automatically smiled to greet him.
"Hello!" I said, not waiting for him to return my greeting. I'm nothing if not efficient. "I was just going to go over some of this histogram data. You have good timing!" Then I stopped because my happy statement was met with a relatively blank stare.
"I have some bad news for you." He said, and I glanced at Tim, still seated behind his desk. He looked away and I returned my increasingly concerned stare to my boss, cocking my head. Saying nothing.
Waiting.
"We think Winnie was killed in an accident this weekend." Then he paused to gather himself while I clutched my papers tighter.
I blinked rapidly and asked softly, "We think? Or we know?"
"Her other department called this morning." He said, and I noted tears in his eyes and closed my own briefly in an attempt at dignity. "They seemed sure, but I've been unable to confirm it."
I looked down, then asked if her children were rumored to be with her. He said not, and I nodded.
"I'm sorry." I whispered, though it wasn't directed toward either of the men in the room. But it was a true statement - I am deeply sorry.
"You'll let me know if you hear differently. If it isn't true." I said at the same time he stated that we'd try to get something together for her family.
He pressed his lips together upon hearing my request, and nodded. "I'll find out as much as I can today." Then he left, leaving me alone with Tim.
I met his eyes momentarily, looked down, and swallowed. "I don't know what to say." I offered, hugging myself tightly, blinking back tears.
"Yeah..." He sighed, shaking his head. "We can go over that later." He nodded at the papers clutched to my chest.
"Yes." I nodded, took a couple steps away. "Of course. Thank you."
I made my way to a rest room, washing my hands and listening to the water run. It soothes me. I gave myself a moment beofre wiping my eyes and telling myself to assume it was a misunderstanding. Then I returned to my desk.
I kept working. Answering email. Making calls. Trying to arrange meetings for the remainder of this week and next to make sure everything's arranged - ready to start - planned. And my hands shake because Winnie likely did the same thing on many days. Arranged notes in binders so she could find them later. Noted meetings in calendars for when she got back from her trip. Mapped out a grant she'd submit in October - I hadn't yet emailed her my files so she could work from an example. She was finishing papers to fill holes in her CV. She looked forward to spending more time with her children and husband. She'd had an appointment about some health concerns. I was going to ask her about it the next time I saw her.
I wrote email to Dryden last night - mentioned that someone had drowned near my house. How awful that must be - to go for a day with friends and never return. How terrible it would be to expect someone to return - to have no reason not to be ready to see him or her - and to learn that wasn't happening.
I watched The King and I once on television. I started to get upset when it didn't look so good for the king. Threatened to stop watching. Mom told me it would be fine - that he'd awaken and begin to dance. He didn't. I cried. Sometimes it doesn't turn out the way you wanted. Likewise, as I comforted myself with the thought of rumors, I was prepared when I checked in before leaving. Boss would have details of the services soon, he said. He did have more details of the accident.
I'm completely sorry and deeply regret that she's gone. We'd spoken recently of the impact our work was to make. How we'd improve outcome for cancer patients and that the long hours, stress and time away from family and friends were somehow worthwhile. It was a struggle, yes, but one that seemed worthy of our time and attention.
She was beautiful. Friendly and genuine and welcoming and funny. She stopped to ease my nerves before my talk, explaining some concept I was too nervous to grasp. I assumed I'd just ask her to tell me again sometime, trade knowledge we'd gained through years of education. Offer additional support through trying to navigate the academic world, though we were too busy to become real friends.
I don't know what to say, other than to let you know that I think the research community lost an incredible member, for this was a surprisingly, profoundly sad day. I've avoided close friendships since arriving here - the knowledge that I'll leave in the relatively near future keeps me pretty contained. But I'll miss her - wish that I'd made more time, looked a little closer, and been more aware that some relationships are more fleeting than I expected.
I'm just so very sorry. And sad. And this is one of the few times that writing it down didn't help at all.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
100 Things
- I love 100 Things posts! I also think they're likely a large threat to anonymity - a quick reference that gives your audience a great deal of information in a quick post. But as new readers arrive, I thought it might be helpful to cover some background.
- Apparently I also love organizing posts into categories. I hadn't planned on doing this, but it happened during the editing process.
- And links! I adore links so much that I sprinkled them liberally throughout my 100 Things! (Sorry if that's annoying - even I didn't know it would be this intense.)
Work and School
- I do medical research. I wanted to be a lawyer. Or journalist.
- I had a very positive experience during an summer undergraduate research program, and adore faculty members who participate in them.
- While the middle was fine, the beginning and ending of grad school were difficult.
- Finishing graduate school was, for me, a little disappointing. Shouldn't there have been some sort of parade in my honor?
- Some of my papers are still in progress.
- I'm pretty good at interviewing. I went 6 for 7 in terms of offers my first round out.
- I took the offer that was the least challenging.
- I still think being a post-doc can be hard.
- While sometimes frustrated, I'm quite awed by the power of the academic world.
- I think animal research is important.
- I can't do it.
- I tried.
- If this research thing falls though (and it might), I'm an excellent receptionist.
- My current boss is wise and kind. I hope to be like him should I become a faculty member at some point.
- I have a love/hate relationship with Matlab.
- Regardless of years of training, I'm still easily fooled.
- I have one of two problems, perhaps both. I can't teach, and/or I don't really understand multiplication.
- I did submit a grant!
- I'm inconsistent - sometimes I work, others I "work."
- I believe in God. Always have.
- I still struggle with my faith a great deal, however, and respect that you might think differently. (Or I'm saying that to cover up my "vicious attempt to convert [you] all to [my] cult-like fundamentalism.") See comments in that link if you're looking for the reference.
- I miss God when I'm away too long.
- I have a church to attend, though I'm considering looking for a new one.
- My Sunday School teaching skills need work.
- My relationship with God has a strong emotional core I find difficult to articulate.
Home and Family
- Home, to me, is where my parents live. But that's starting to change.
- Grandma and Grandpa watched me when I was little while my parents worked during the day. I love and miss them a great deal.
- My parents are loving and wonderful and pretty amazing.
- Brother is younger than I am.
- I call my niece - his daughter - Little One. (Well, on the blog. When I see her, I use her name. Or Princess. Or Silly Goose.)
- I'm a bit spoiled, though I'm proudly middle class.
- I laugh a great deal with my family.
- I have a melodramatic dog - Chienne. I love her a lot.
- She's inspired more romantic interest lately than I have.
- My parents would like another grandchild.
- I started with crushes early on. They tend to last a long time.
- I kind of hate New Year's as a holiday. Valentine's Day, however, doesn't bother me.
- I love Nick. (Nick is my PowerBook. Tells you something about me, right?)
- I had an imaginary boyfriend.
- I also had a long-term crush in college. It was largely unremarkable if you ignore one night.
- I hold out hope that I will find someone to marry. But if not, perhaps that's OK.
- I tried online dating for a little while.
- Then I stopped.
- I joined a dating service in grad school.
- Then I wrote about the dates a few years later for my blog.
- My most recent crush? It's not going so well, I fear. I shrug over the reason, but think it might be a "great guy, bad timing" sort of situation.
- It did, however, produce some letters I like.
Friends
- They are small in quantity and enormous in quality.
- I went to undergrad with Rachel and Elle.
- There's M, from grad school, who is a consistent source of comfort and support and laughter.
- And Violet, who helps me with dating woes.
- I'm shamefully envious of my friends who are married and considering children.
General and Random
- I'm an alto, though I wished hard to be a pretty soprano.
- I dream vividly and frequently. Sometimes about elevators.
- I get lost. A lot. Perhaps that's sort of OK.
- I sometimes judge people too harshly, too quickly. That's not really OK at all.
- I'm terribly impatient - bad at waiting.
- Especially when I feel I could be making progress.
- I'm excessively proud that I have traveled to Japan. I would have guessed I'd be too timid to go. But I loved it.
- Before going to England, London topped my list of travel destinations. After returning, it still does.
- I'm sometimes selfish, yet try to dial it back.
- I can be viciously competitive. Really.
- Seriously, I don't like to lose. I've always been that way.
- I own Longaberger baskets.
- I'm not good at keeping secrets.
- You don't want me around in a high-stress situation. I can be useless under pressure.
- Though you've probably heard most of what's on Chandler (my iPod), I do like some country music.
- Southern people fascinate me.
- I make life more challenging than it needs to be. Also more dramatic. It's delightful. Yes, I'm kidding.
- I know what "D&D" means.
- My name is Katie.
- I have this weird aversion to getting gray hair.
- It's probably because I don't feel old. Though I accept that I am, in fact, aging.
- If I must use a salutation, I'll go with Dr. Or Miss. Never Ms.
- It's easy to hurt my feelings.
- I prefer warm cookies to cold ice cream.
- I'm quite introverted. And a bit insecure.
- I'm capable of giving excellent gifts.
- I'm a Capricorn. I also believe in astrology somewhat. Are you making fun of me?! See #23 in this section.
- My vision is awful.
- I get mopey, but tend to recover quickly.
- I'm self-centered.
- But very kind.
- I bought a house. It has 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and a 2 car garage. I'm sometimes shocked that I get to live here by myself.
- I struggle with depression.
- I love TV in general, and am quite fond of wedding shows.
- I can, in fact, sleep on planes. And I'm not so afraid to fly anymore.
- I'm rather easily embarrassed.
- I have a favorite analogy, though I've used many in this blog. It's how I think about life in general - this reminds me of that.
- At one time, I was a fan of NKOTB. I say this because things change.
- I worry excessively, even when I know it's silly.
- I wish life came with progress reports.
- I'm fascinated by blogs, and read a lot more than I write. (I know that seems impossible, but it's quite true.)
- I tend to post at night though I consider blog topics throughout the day.
- I sometimes continue to be embarrassed that anyone reads this.
- I compose a vast majority of my entries in Word, then paste them in Blogger to edit and add links.
- I'm pleasantly surprised - a lot - by the depth and insight and ideas that develop by being part of this community. I linger at the edges - some of you intimidate me a bit with your brilliance and humor and easy confidence - but I'm quite pleased to be around.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
It's Longaberger.
I have assumed that none of you want to hear vague details about my frustrations with work. I also had my hair cut this morning, but I sort of did that post already. Today lacked the dramatic flair of my February visit, but the cut is pretty and functional. Not overly interesting.
I was looking at MaggieMay’s pictures (New Kid also has some! Oh, and B*! (I shall weep if a picture of a hamster driving a covered wagon doesn’t appear at some point.) Repressed Librarian is working on her set too!) Anyway, I’m not cool enough to do one of my own, but I did make a confession in Maggie’s comments. Something so shameful and embarrassing – I was shocked to have admitted to it. But I giggled and found my pictures and giggled some more. Then I thought about the shirt Mom had brought when I moved into my house.
“You somehow forgot this at home!” She told me. “I knew you’d really want to keep it with you, so I brought it with me.” I laughed and tossed it somewhere – no idea where it currently is.
But I’ll start from the beginning.
I believe I was still in undergrad – living about 20 minutes away from my parents – when Mom sent an email. She worked with a man whose wife sold Longaberger baskets. Now, I did the requisite eye roll because they’re quite expensive and rather silly in all their baskety glory with the different sizes and colors and uses. But I went with Mom to a party and found myself enchanted by the little woven items. Most of them are a warm, golden color and they have the cutest little golden tag with their names on them! If you’ve ever left a Tupperware party with more plastic containers than you’d ever need (or infatuated with the best little orange peeler ever!), you’ll understand. It’s the wine and snacks and excitement over these items you can only get at this particular party!
Anyway, I had a popcorn basket at this point (that I’d never put popcorn in – the butter could stain the basket!). People at the parties (she’d been to many without me) had told Mom of the factory in Ohio. This woman – Chief Basket Lady – had organized a 3 day bus trip to visit the Mecca of Midwestern baskets. Mom wanted to go. She wanted me to come with her.
I said no. I vividly remember calling her and giggling together over the very idea of me going to see baskets for 3 days. Silly Mom.
Several months later, staring at a t-shirt with a basket and flowers painted on it in mute confusion, I sat by the window on a bus headed east to Ohio.
“I’m not wearing this.” I said with grave seriousness, looking around at the women who were wearing last year’s version. It had a rose rather than daisy in the basket. And the ribbon was red rather than blue.
“Oh!” The woman across the aisle said. “You have a t-shirt too! Good! Maureen paints them all by hand!”
Mom and I made our politely impressed faces and I waited until the sweet woman's attention was directed elsewhere before dissolving into laughter. Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I turned to face Mom and saw she was struggling similarly. It should have been a clue that we weren’t going to fit in very well on this trip.
We watched a movie on the way there, but I noted the rain as we got closer to Frazeysburg. We were supposed to do some outdoor event on Day 1. But the rain had altered our plans. I dug out my itinerary with some concern. I like to follow plans – it bugs me when things change – throws off the whole basket trip, if you will. So it was determined that we’d see the home office that afternoon and spend all day at the Homestead on Day 2.
“All day?” I looked at Mom and noticed she was a bit worried too. But she shrugged and smiled and we squinted out the window through the rain at the giant basket coming into view.
“Wow.” I breathed. “That’s a … big freaking basket.”
“I think it’s … nice.” Mom said, and we laughed together again. Still chuckling, we dashed through the rain – the only ones in shirts without baskets painted on them.
The office, to be fair, was quite beautiful. So we wandered around, looking at the basket collections, viewing some pictures of its construction, trying to talk to some of the basket ladies but not having much to say – we simply didn’t know the basic basket etiquette.
We were reading down a list of facts when an employee – tour guide, perhaps – approached.
“The handles are heated.” I informed Mom. “I wonder why.”
“They would get quite heavy if they froze.” Tour guide said sweetly.
“Oh!” I turned around, and Mom and I complimented the beautiful building. Tour guide looked at us expectantly so I twisted my mouth and tried to think of a question.
“So… Are they functional?”
She looked confused, so I elaborated. “The handles up there. What do they do?”
I looked at Mom when that failed to get a response, and shot her an indignant look when, rather than helping me explain, she began backing away and trying to look busy. I returned my attention to Tour guide.
“So they’re heated. To avoid icing over in the winter. But they’re just decorative? Really?”
“What exactly do you want them to do?” She asked, starting to require some de-icing herself.
I arched an eyebrow. There was no reason to get rude and defensive over these useless handles. “I guess I would like them to create solar energy. I mean, they’re up there anyway. Might as well get something from them.”
And I watched her walk away. I wandered over to Mom, who was resting against a wall as she laughed. “Perhaps we won’t ask many questions.” She offered.
We wandered through the Homestead the next day in about 2 hours. You can’t buy the baskets there. A selection of three is offered, but all others must be ordered at the Longaberger parties. So there is clothing, home décor, toys, pretty much anything you could think of. All in a basket theme. Except for the food. They had all sorts of spreads and dips and utensils on one section.
“Peach salsa?” Mom asked, poking at the sample with a chip.
“Hmmm.” I said, wandering aimlessly.
“Try it.” She ordered with a grin.
“No chance.” I smiled back. “Though it’s probably not bad.”
Mom and I found some basket books and sat down in a basket chair and read for many hours, waiting for the tour group to go back to the hotel. We eventually got bored with the basket knowledge and went to watch the workers make baskets. That was actually fascinating and we stood there for about an hour.
“I wish we could make some baskets.” I told Mom as we leaned on a railing watching the workers below us. “I’m so bored.”
She nodded and we went outside to look at the flowers planted in their big basket planters. I shook my head when I noticed my basket t-shirt then refolded my arms over it.
“Katie.” Mom scolded, then broke into a smile. “Maureen painted that by hand. Plus, the whole group has them on. You would have felt out of place without one!”
“Yes, Mom. Not wearing the basket shirt would have been quite embarrassing.”
Day 3 found us in Dresden. “Basket Village, USA” I was exhausted, tired of being on the bus, tired of looking at baskets.
“I don’t think they sell baskets here either.” Mom informed me.
“What the hell?” I asked, getting impatient. “So what are we going to do here all day?”
There was shopping – basket accessories, fake baskets (because apparently if it’s not Longaberger, it’s a pseudo-basket at best) There’s another giant basket there – we looked at it. Then we bought some tiny baskets – one of them holds toothpicks in my kitchen. We walked and walked – down pretty streets with baskets for decoration, into a little diner for a light lunch, then called it off. We gave up, finding a bench and sitting down.
“Are you starting to hate baskets?” I asked, turning to see Mom nod. I laughed, trying to find some joy in watching the women exclaim and coo over the basket liners and covers and tiny baskets and big baskets and retired baskets. It’s a sweet hobby and they were lovely ladies. We just didn’t reach their level of obsession over the woven items.
An older woman stopped beside our bench, and we looked over at her and smiled.
“You found a place in the shade.” She noted, looking tired.
I scooted toward Mom and asked her if she’d like to sit down.
She did and I tiredly stayed silent.
“Are you enjoying Dresden?” Mom asked her, leaning forward to see around me.
“It’s hot.” The woman said, and I nodded.
“I’m tired.” She continued, so I kept nodding.
“And these fucking baskets are everywhere.” She said and Mom and I were startled into laughter.
“Aren’t you sick of baskets?” She asked after she’d stopped laughing with us.
“I just want to go home.” I said. “But our group won’t leave for another hour.”
“Ah.” She nodded sympathetically. “My daughter will probably be here for another 2.”
Mom and I finally returned to the bus, climbing aboard amidst the chatter of spectacular shopping finds. I snuggled into my seat while Chief Basket Lady went down the aisle collecting gifts for some game we were supposed to play.
“We didn’t buy anything.” Mom informed her when she reached us. We’d been anti-basket-ladies for most of the trip, remaining alone and laughing. So it was hardly shocking that we weren’t going to play the game.
It was, however, mildly entertaining as we began the trek back west toward home. Watching people get gifts then trade. The predominant item offered? Peach salsa. I rested my head on Mom’s shoulder and watched, smiled and thought about the t-shirt I’d tucked in her suitcase rather than my own.
We promised we'd never take a bus trip again. But I have fond memories of our basket trip, regardless of our poor behavior. I also added a Dresden basket, a hanging basket I won as a door prize, and a Woven Memories basket to my collection. Strangely appropriate, yes?
I was looking at MaggieMay’s pictures (New Kid also has some! Oh, and B*! (I shall weep if a picture of a hamster driving a covered wagon doesn’t appear at some point.) Repressed Librarian is working on her set too!) Anyway, I’m not cool enough to do one of my own, but I did make a confession in Maggie’s comments. Something so shameful and embarrassing – I was shocked to have admitted to it. But I giggled and found my pictures and giggled some more. Then I thought about the shirt Mom had brought when I moved into my house.
“You somehow forgot this at home!” She told me. “I knew you’d really want to keep it with you, so I brought it with me.” I laughed and tossed it somewhere – no idea where it currently is.
But I’ll start from the beginning.
I believe I was still in undergrad – living about 20 minutes away from my parents – when Mom sent an email. She worked with a man whose wife sold Longaberger baskets. Now, I did the requisite eye roll because they’re quite expensive and rather silly in all their baskety glory with the different sizes and colors and uses. But I went with Mom to a party and found myself enchanted by the little woven items. Most of them are a warm, golden color and they have the cutest little golden tag with their names on them! If you’ve ever left a Tupperware party with more plastic containers than you’d ever need (or infatuated with the best little orange peeler ever!), you’ll understand. It’s the wine and snacks and excitement over these items you can only get at this particular party!
Anyway, I had a popcorn basket at this point (that I’d never put popcorn in – the butter could stain the basket!). People at the parties (she’d been to many without me) had told Mom of the factory in Ohio. This woman – Chief Basket Lady – had organized a 3 day bus trip to visit the Mecca of Midwestern baskets. Mom wanted to go. She wanted me to come with her.
I said no. I vividly remember calling her and giggling together over the very idea of me going to see baskets for 3 days. Silly Mom.
Several months later, staring at a t-shirt with a basket and flowers painted on it in mute confusion, I sat by the window on a bus headed east to Ohio.
“I’m not wearing this.” I said with grave seriousness, looking around at the women who were wearing last year’s version. It had a rose rather than daisy in the basket. And the ribbon was red rather than blue.
“Oh!” The woman across the aisle said. “You have a t-shirt too! Good! Maureen paints them all by hand!”
Mom and I made our politely impressed faces and I waited until the sweet woman's attention was directed elsewhere before dissolving into laughter. Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I turned to face Mom and saw she was struggling similarly. It should have been a clue that we weren’t going to fit in very well on this trip.
We watched a movie on the way there, but I noted the rain as we got closer to Frazeysburg. We were supposed to do some outdoor event on Day 1. But the rain had altered our plans. I dug out my itinerary with some concern. I like to follow plans – it bugs me when things change – throws off the whole basket trip, if you will. So it was determined that we’d see the home office that afternoon and spend all day at the Homestead on Day 2.
“All day?” I looked at Mom and noticed she was a bit worried too. But she shrugged and smiled and we squinted out the window through the rain at the giant basket coming into view.
“Wow.” I breathed. “That’s a … big freaking basket.”
“I think it’s … nice.” Mom said, and we laughed together again. Still chuckling, we dashed through the rain – the only ones in shirts without baskets painted on them.
The office, to be fair, was quite beautiful. So we wandered around, looking at the basket collections, viewing some pictures of its construction, trying to talk to some of the basket ladies but not having much to say – we simply didn’t know the basic basket etiquette.
We were reading down a list of facts when an employee – tour guide, perhaps – approached.
“The handles are heated.” I informed Mom. “I wonder why.”
“They would get quite heavy if they froze.” Tour guide said sweetly.
“Oh!” I turned around, and Mom and I complimented the beautiful building. Tour guide looked at us expectantly so I twisted my mouth and tried to think of a question.
“So… Are they functional?”
She looked confused, so I elaborated. “The handles up there. What do they do?”
I looked at Mom when that failed to get a response, and shot her an indignant look when, rather than helping me explain, she began backing away and trying to look busy. I returned my attention to Tour guide.
“So they’re heated. To avoid icing over in the winter. But they’re just decorative? Really?”
“What exactly do you want them to do?” She asked, starting to require some de-icing herself.
I arched an eyebrow. There was no reason to get rude and defensive over these useless handles. “I guess I would like them to create solar energy. I mean, they’re up there anyway. Might as well get something from them.”
And I watched her walk away. I wandered over to Mom, who was resting against a wall as she laughed. “Perhaps we won’t ask many questions.” She offered.
We wandered through the Homestead the next day in about 2 hours. You can’t buy the baskets there. A selection of three is offered, but all others must be ordered at the Longaberger parties. So there is clothing, home décor, toys, pretty much anything you could think of. All in a basket theme. Except for the food. They had all sorts of spreads and dips and utensils on one section.
“Peach salsa?” Mom asked, poking at the sample with a chip.
“Hmmm.” I said, wandering aimlessly.
“Try it.” She ordered with a grin.
“No chance.” I smiled back. “Though it’s probably not bad.”
Mom and I found some basket books and sat down in a basket chair and read for many hours, waiting for the tour group to go back to the hotel. We eventually got bored with the basket knowledge and went to watch the workers make baskets. That was actually fascinating and we stood there for about an hour.
“I wish we could make some baskets.” I told Mom as we leaned on a railing watching the workers below us. “I’m so bored.”
She nodded and we went outside to look at the flowers planted in their big basket planters. I shook my head when I noticed my basket t-shirt then refolded my arms over it.
“Katie.” Mom scolded, then broke into a smile. “Maureen painted that by hand. Plus, the whole group has them on. You would have felt out of place without one!”
“Yes, Mom. Not wearing the basket shirt would have been quite embarrassing.”
Day 3 found us in Dresden. “Basket Village, USA” I was exhausted, tired of being on the bus, tired of looking at baskets.
“I don’t think they sell baskets here either.” Mom informed me.
“What the hell?” I asked, getting impatient. “So what are we going to do here all day?”
There was shopping – basket accessories, fake baskets (because apparently if it’s not Longaberger, it’s a pseudo-basket at best) There’s another giant basket there – we looked at it. Then we bought some tiny baskets – one of them holds toothpicks in my kitchen. We walked and walked – down pretty streets with baskets for decoration, into a little diner for a light lunch, then called it off. We gave up, finding a bench and sitting down.
“Are you starting to hate baskets?” I asked, turning to see Mom nod. I laughed, trying to find some joy in watching the women exclaim and coo over the basket liners and covers and tiny baskets and big baskets and retired baskets. It’s a sweet hobby and they were lovely ladies. We just didn’t reach their level of obsession over the woven items.
An older woman stopped beside our bench, and we looked over at her and smiled.
“You found a place in the shade.” She noted, looking tired.
I scooted toward Mom and asked her if she’d like to sit down.
She did and I tiredly stayed silent.
“Are you enjoying Dresden?” Mom asked her, leaning forward to see around me.
“It’s hot.” The woman said, and I nodded.
“I’m tired.” She continued, so I kept nodding.
“And these fucking baskets are everywhere.” She said and Mom and I were startled into laughter.
“Aren’t you sick of baskets?” She asked after she’d stopped laughing with us.
“I just want to go home.” I said. “But our group won’t leave for another hour.”
“Ah.” She nodded sympathetically. “My daughter will probably be here for another 2.”
Mom and I finally returned to the bus, climbing aboard amidst the chatter of spectacular shopping finds. I snuggled into my seat while Chief Basket Lady went down the aisle collecting gifts for some game we were supposed to play.
“We didn’t buy anything.” Mom informed her when she reached us. We’d been anti-basket-ladies for most of the trip, remaining alone and laughing. So it was hardly shocking that we weren’t going to play the game.
It was, however, mildly entertaining as we began the trek back west toward home. Watching people get gifts then trade. The predominant item offered? Peach salsa. I rested my head on Mom’s shoulder and watched, smiled and thought about the t-shirt I’d tucked in her suitcase rather than my own.
We promised we'd never take a bus trip again. But I have fond memories of our basket trip, regardless of our poor behavior. I also added a Dresden basket, a hanging basket I won as a door prize, and a Woven Memories basket to my collection. Strangely appropriate, yes?
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Out of practice
I opened a program today that I haven’t used in about a year. In the beginning, I installed everything on my computer at work that I might need. But I didn’t have data, so the software went untouched for a long period of time. I decided, staring at my computer screen, that I was completely lost. Quickly blaming the newest release, I downloaded the more familiar version.
“Well, hell.” I muttered. “I don’t really remember this either.” So I made some guesses, pushed buttons that seemed logical. Backed up a couple times, started over a few more. And eventually that knowledge returned. Countless days spent in my grad school cubicle, writing scripts and calling functions and playing in this software package were worth something. After successfully giving it adequate information, I watched graphs appear, trying to remember how to read them.
I stayed late, resisting the urge to pack up and bring everything home. I did that, actually, but only after finishing with that particular program. I lost notes on how to transfer the data from one environment to another, so I’ve been playing with that tonight – trying to remember processing steps that I could once do mindlessly.
It comes back. It’s definitely not like learning something new. That’s frustrating on a different level, and I’m good enough at being impatient to understand there are different types of learning pains. I took a break from my muddled revisions – loving the feeling of working on something that I was sure would be published. It’s a different feeling for me than working on new projects. There’s hope for them, but precious little confidence. This little paper found a journal on my third try. So I’m peering carefully at figures, trying to recall the tricks to programs, reading text aloud because someone might actually read it.
It turns out that I’m also painfully out of practice with multi-tasking. At one point, I was happiest when working on at least two projects in the same day. Attending meetings for one, then collecting data for another. Mentoring on a third in the afternoon, then back at home to read for the thesis that integrated all of them. Yet today exhausted me – I was left feeling unfocused and overwhelmed. Continued to think about my software woes during a seminar. Am impatient with reasonable requests on other projects because I’m used to having more than enough time to focus on one idea and think all the way through it.
Apparently I’m also not so good at composing blog posts of any quality after days like today. Can’t answer email or pull thoughts together. I just want to rest. Working for more than 12 hours didn’t phase me at one time. Either I’m aging really rapidly or my painfully slow start at post-doctoral research has left me reeling under a relatively light workload.
I’ll get there – adapt and adjust. Until then, bear with me. I don’t even have time to feel overly sorry for myself because I’m so incredibly tired. I can't think of any stories or come up with a decent analogy. I vaguely remember an idea on how I was quite surprised and embarrassed when I realized my pretty white shirt was incredibly sheer, but the humor and entertainment value escapes me at the moment.
I have hopes for writing something more interesting tomorrow - for the manuscript as well as the blog. Cross your fingers for me.
“Well, hell.” I muttered. “I don’t really remember this either.” So I made some guesses, pushed buttons that seemed logical. Backed up a couple times, started over a few more. And eventually that knowledge returned. Countless days spent in my grad school cubicle, writing scripts and calling functions and playing in this software package were worth something. After successfully giving it adequate information, I watched graphs appear, trying to remember how to read them.
I stayed late, resisting the urge to pack up and bring everything home. I did that, actually, but only after finishing with that particular program. I lost notes on how to transfer the data from one environment to another, so I’ve been playing with that tonight – trying to remember processing steps that I could once do mindlessly.
It comes back. It’s definitely not like learning something new. That’s frustrating on a different level, and I’m good enough at being impatient to understand there are different types of learning pains. I took a break from my muddled revisions – loving the feeling of working on something that I was sure would be published. It’s a different feeling for me than working on new projects. There’s hope for them, but precious little confidence. This little paper found a journal on my third try. So I’m peering carefully at figures, trying to recall the tricks to programs, reading text aloud because someone might actually read it.
It turns out that I’m also painfully out of practice with multi-tasking. At one point, I was happiest when working on at least two projects in the same day. Attending meetings for one, then collecting data for another. Mentoring on a third in the afternoon, then back at home to read for the thesis that integrated all of them. Yet today exhausted me – I was left feeling unfocused and overwhelmed. Continued to think about my software woes during a seminar. Am impatient with reasonable requests on other projects because I’m used to having more than enough time to focus on one idea and think all the way through it.
Apparently I’m also not so good at composing blog posts of any quality after days like today. Can’t answer email or pull thoughts together. I just want to rest. Working for more than 12 hours didn’t phase me at one time. Either I’m aging really rapidly or my painfully slow start at post-doctoral research has left me reeling under a relatively light workload.
I’ll get there – adapt and adjust. Until then, bear with me. I don’t even have time to feel overly sorry for myself because I’m so incredibly tired. I can't think of any stories or come up with a decent analogy. I vaguely remember an idea on how I was quite surprised and embarrassed when I realized my pretty white shirt was incredibly sheer, but the humor and entertainment value escapes me at the moment.
I have hopes for writing something more interesting tomorrow - for the manuscript as well as the blog. Cross your fingers for me.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
My thoughts on singing
I sang in high school. Actually, I sang until I was a junior in high school. Just for reference, I won a 1st place in junior high for my lovely rendition of Swinging on a Star. Grandpa sang it to me when I was little and it’s a fantastic song. It’s not easy to sing in junior high by yourself in a room full of strangers and judges. Really.
I vividly remember standing alone in my choir director’s office near the end of freshman year. He was a beautiful man with a wonderful voice and charming sense of humor, and the choir composed of freshman ladies was uniformly smitten. We were nearing the end of the year and auditioning to see where we would be placed in the choral structure. There was sight reading, some memorization, the ability to find the appropriate note in a chord when given a starting point. Then we did scales so he could assess my range.
I was shy, confessing softly to being nervous. It was likely due to him more than the situation. To this day I sigh when I’m in a room with an overly attractive man. Granted, it’s now more likely to be over someone with an easy smile, glasses and quick laugh than excellent bone structure. But I’m an idiot when I’m attracted to someone – I pronounce words incorrectly and pray he doesn’t notice, speak a little quieter than normal in hopes that he’ll lean in to hear me, get overly abrupt when I feel that I’ve tipped my hand and showed a bit too much interest. It’s not overly impressive, which could explain why I’m so very single. I tend toward making a bad impression on men I’d really want to attract.
Mr. Christianson smiled at me, eyes crinkling up. “No reason to be nervous.” He noted. “You sing for me every day.”
“Not alone!” I made a face and shook my head, and he laughed.
“How about we start together.” He offered kindly and we went from there. I did fine – I’m not great at sight reading, honestly, but can get by. I’m an excellent rememberer, so that section went particularly well. We spent extra time as he continued to form longer strings of notes to trick me, complimenting as I kept up. I blushed with pleasure – still remember feeling my cheeks warm.
“Well, the good news is I was right in the beginning.” He said lightly, making some notes on a paper. There were about 100 of us – being young and cute and musical means there’s no shortage of 14 year old girls eager to be in your class – so I’m sure he needed reminders of how we performed individually over the course of the week. He didn’t finish his statement though, and I was confused.
“How were you right?” I finally asked.
“You’re definitely an alto.” He said, still writing. “Definitely your range.”
“Oh.” I said softly, embarrassed. “Right.”
He looked up at me with a frown. “Nothing wrong with being an alto. It’s your natural vocal range, Katie. You have a beautiful voice. It’s when you try to sing outside that range that things get ugly. You’re an alto. And that’s great. You know where your voice works best.”
He promoted me into an upper level choir and I sang there for a year. It’s difficult for me to explain the power of music – of creating something with other people that’s so incredibly exquisite, it brings tears of joy, this warmth in my chest, this overwhelming awe that my voice fits into this harmony that takes up so much space in that moment that it’s all that matters. Everything important and beautiful is in that single chord. I loved it. Can remember wishing certain songs would never end because they were just so perfect. Smile broadly when I recall how we’d look at each other after we finished – whether in the huge classroom we occupied for practice or in front of an audience in the gym – because it was just so completely cool that we’d sounded like that.
There was some honors course that only met during the hour that contained choir practice. As enrollment increased in my high school, I realized there were singers far more talented than I, but also knew Mr. Christianson tended to take current students first when forming next year’s choirs. We had, after all, already put in time, learned from him, practiced hard. So I gave up my spot, a bit sad, but feeling as though it was the appropriate choice.
I don’t sing anymore. It’s been so long – I’ve largely lost the ability to read music to any great degree. I haven’t considered joining a church choir for the simple reason that I don’t care for singing in church. As I sang along in my car today on my commute, I realized I was surprisingly happy. Trying to isolate the cause – especially given a rather rough morning – I decided it was likely the music. It was pretty and I was singing, though I had the volume loud enough that I couldn’t really hear myself. Funny, I mused, that I’d say I don’t like to sing if someone asked.
I always wanted to be a soprano, I realized. They seemed prettier somehow, more graceful, the ones who gathered the most attention and admiration. They got the gorgeous melody lines while I was left to fill in the center of the chord. It was a solid sound from our section placed on the left. Men sat in the middle, sopranos on the right. In my high school, there was a definite difference in being pretty or popular that seemed to correlate to vocal range. I doubt it holds true overall – in fact, if you’re reading and you’re an alto, I’m sure you’re gorgeous and loved by all who encounter you. But I wasn’t. Hell, I’m still not. And when I looked around at the women who had voices similar to mine, they were more like me – quiet, a bit bookish, a tad plain – than like the soprano ladies. They were prettier, faster to laugh, more confident and outgoing.
This is likely a flawed perception recalled from a high school girl struggling to find her place. I didn’t have many friends, though I had my share of acquaintances. I was well liked in high school, actually, though I didn’t realize it until late in my senior year. I was insecure even then though, and that causes me to retreat. If there’s a chance you’ll think badly of me, I’d rather you think nothing at all. So I do my best not to attract attention, which, in my mind, made me a good alto. Which was not a source of pride.
As for church hymns? Well, it’s probably a lot like life. I try to sing out of my range – force notes that my voice can’t create with any degree of comfort or beauty. I also don’t sing enough with those like me. Am foolish enough not to recognize my own beauty and let it color how I see those women who happen to share some of my qualities – even the exceptionally lovely ones.
Mr. Christianson picked up on it, but I didn’t buy his comment. He was right though – my vocal range is on the low side. My speaking voice isn’t light and lyrical either, but it’s pleasant. Increases pitch when I’m happy, softens when I’m sad or embarrassed. It’s a good voice – I try to use it kindly. I need it to learn, to teach, to collaborate. I sing songs for the Little One – blend my own alto with Mom’s. Listened to Cousin and Aunt sing The Grand Old Duke of York with altos of their own. Little Cousin smiled and danced during their brief performance. And it was perfect.
Beauty – perceived through sight or smell or touch or sound – doesn’t look the same. It’s exquisitely varied over individuals. It’s not always slender or able to hit high notes. It doesn’t always have muscular arms or gorgeous eyes. I’m exceedingly proud of being attracted to different qualities in people. She seems a bit quirky, so I’d like to invite her to lunch. He has this intense focus on his work, and I shiver a bit when watching him squint through glasses at his computer screen. I find it difficult to believe that I could find any of you less than amazing. There’s depth and character and humor and insight within what you write and that’s beautiful. Different, certainly, but there is something perfect about singing in your range, figuring yourself out and confidently displaying your strengths.
It gives me hope – seeing how lovely you all are. I have a beautiful voice. Mr. Christianson was right. I’m learning where it works best, though I’ve already found some of the notes that resonate in my range. I need the confidence to sing – to find those moments where I feel filled with joy. Creating something special – whether alone or with other people. I’m hoping I get to be part of a duet at some point, though that’s never been my strength. Blending my voice with one other person’s was always difficult for me – that delicate balance between us, the give and take, forgiving the notes that are slightly off key, merging to form some sort of song.
I keep getting distracted – talking about men, past and future. I think it’s all mixed together. The core knowledge that, for me, the most exquisite music isn’t created alone. Perhaps that’s why I’m so fond of blogs – have no writing aspirations outside this format. The commenting, looking at site stats to see who’s reading – it’s a group effort, the linking and mixing of inspiration. The offers of comfort in comments or the insight written in email. It’s some kind of chorus, I think. At least in my mind. What scares me is that I have some issues figured out - I simply lack the courage to apply what I’ve learned to make some crucial changes.
In the same way, I think Mr. Christianson had the right idea years ago. He knew my range, admired my talent for what it was, saw the beauty and made some notes on where it would fit with the rest of the group. In contrast, I was shy and embarrassed that I wasn’t more conventionally pretty. Couldn’t find the courage to sparkle happily as an alto. It’s not trivial to find your range – to understand where you sound the prettiest, where your voice is most comfortable, stable and strong. Even after locating it though, I need to sing. Trust that someone will appreciate it, that I’ll find happiness in using my talents. Learn from the times where I’m slightly flat or sharp. Because I find I miss it – that rush of creating something beautiful, of being part of something greater than myself, of leaving such a group stronger than I went in.
I find it’s important to me – singing. And I’m an alto.
I vividly remember standing alone in my choir director’s office near the end of freshman year. He was a beautiful man with a wonderful voice and charming sense of humor, and the choir composed of freshman ladies was uniformly smitten. We were nearing the end of the year and auditioning to see where we would be placed in the choral structure. There was sight reading, some memorization, the ability to find the appropriate note in a chord when given a starting point. Then we did scales so he could assess my range.
I was shy, confessing softly to being nervous. It was likely due to him more than the situation. To this day I sigh when I’m in a room with an overly attractive man. Granted, it’s now more likely to be over someone with an easy smile, glasses and quick laugh than excellent bone structure. But I’m an idiot when I’m attracted to someone – I pronounce words incorrectly and pray he doesn’t notice, speak a little quieter than normal in hopes that he’ll lean in to hear me, get overly abrupt when I feel that I’ve tipped my hand and showed a bit too much interest. It’s not overly impressive, which could explain why I’m so very single. I tend toward making a bad impression on men I’d really want to attract.
Mr. Christianson smiled at me, eyes crinkling up. “No reason to be nervous.” He noted. “You sing for me every day.”
“Not alone!” I made a face and shook my head, and he laughed.
“How about we start together.” He offered kindly and we went from there. I did fine – I’m not great at sight reading, honestly, but can get by. I’m an excellent rememberer, so that section went particularly well. We spent extra time as he continued to form longer strings of notes to trick me, complimenting as I kept up. I blushed with pleasure – still remember feeling my cheeks warm.
“Well, the good news is I was right in the beginning.” He said lightly, making some notes on a paper. There were about 100 of us – being young and cute and musical means there’s no shortage of 14 year old girls eager to be in your class – so I’m sure he needed reminders of how we performed individually over the course of the week. He didn’t finish his statement though, and I was confused.
“How were you right?” I finally asked.
“You’re definitely an alto.” He said, still writing. “Definitely your range.”
“Oh.” I said softly, embarrassed. “Right.”
He looked up at me with a frown. “Nothing wrong with being an alto. It’s your natural vocal range, Katie. You have a beautiful voice. It’s when you try to sing outside that range that things get ugly. You’re an alto. And that’s great. You know where your voice works best.”
He promoted me into an upper level choir and I sang there for a year. It’s difficult for me to explain the power of music – of creating something with other people that’s so incredibly exquisite, it brings tears of joy, this warmth in my chest, this overwhelming awe that my voice fits into this harmony that takes up so much space in that moment that it’s all that matters. Everything important and beautiful is in that single chord. I loved it. Can remember wishing certain songs would never end because they were just so perfect. Smile broadly when I recall how we’d look at each other after we finished – whether in the huge classroom we occupied for practice or in front of an audience in the gym – because it was just so completely cool that we’d sounded like that.
There was some honors course that only met during the hour that contained choir practice. As enrollment increased in my high school, I realized there were singers far more talented than I, but also knew Mr. Christianson tended to take current students first when forming next year’s choirs. We had, after all, already put in time, learned from him, practiced hard. So I gave up my spot, a bit sad, but feeling as though it was the appropriate choice.
I don’t sing anymore. It’s been so long – I’ve largely lost the ability to read music to any great degree. I haven’t considered joining a church choir for the simple reason that I don’t care for singing in church. As I sang along in my car today on my commute, I realized I was surprisingly happy. Trying to isolate the cause – especially given a rather rough morning – I decided it was likely the music. It was pretty and I was singing, though I had the volume loud enough that I couldn’t really hear myself. Funny, I mused, that I’d say I don’t like to sing if someone asked.
I always wanted to be a soprano, I realized. They seemed prettier somehow, more graceful, the ones who gathered the most attention and admiration. They got the gorgeous melody lines while I was left to fill in the center of the chord. It was a solid sound from our section placed on the left. Men sat in the middle, sopranos on the right. In my high school, there was a definite difference in being pretty or popular that seemed to correlate to vocal range. I doubt it holds true overall – in fact, if you’re reading and you’re an alto, I’m sure you’re gorgeous and loved by all who encounter you. But I wasn’t. Hell, I’m still not. And when I looked around at the women who had voices similar to mine, they were more like me – quiet, a bit bookish, a tad plain – than like the soprano ladies. They were prettier, faster to laugh, more confident and outgoing.
This is likely a flawed perception recalled from a high school girl struggling to find her place. I didn’t have many friends, though I had my share of acquaintances. I was well liked in high school, actually, though I didn’t realize it until late in my senior year. I was insecure even then though, and that causes me to retreat. If there’s a chance you’ll think badly of me, I’d rather you think nothing at all. So I do my best not to attract attention, which, in my mind, made me a good alto. Which was not a source of pride.
As for church hymns? Well, it’s probably a lot like life. I try to sing out of my range – force notes that my voice can’t create with any degree of comfort or beauty. I also don’t sing enough with those like me. Am foolish enough not to recognize my own beauty and let it color how I see those women who happen to share some of my qualities – even the exceptionally lovely ones.
Mr. Christianson picked up on it, but I didn’t buy his comment. He was right though – my vocal range is on the low side. My speaking voice isn’t light and lyrical either, but it’s pleasant. Increases pitch when I’m happy, softens when I’m sad or embarrassed. It’s a good voice – I try to use it kindly. I need it to learn, to teach, to collaborate. I sing songs for the Little One – blend my own alto with Mom’s. Listened to Cousin and Aunt sing The Grand Old Duke of York with altos of their own. Little Cousin smiled and danced during their brief performance. And it was perfect.
Beauty – perceived through sight or smell or touch or sound – doesn’t look the same. It’s exquisitely varied over individuals. It’s not always slender or able to hit high notes. It doesn’t always have muscular arms or gorgeous eyes. I’m exceedingly proud of being attracted to different qualities in people. She seems a bit quirky, so I’d like to invite her to lunch. He has this intense focus on his work, and I shiver a bit when watching him squint through glasses at his computer screen. I find it difficult to believe that I could find any of you less than amazing. There’s depth and character and humor and insight within what you write and that’s beautiful. Different, certainly, but there is something perfect about singing in your range, figuring yourself out and confidently displaying your strengths.
It gives me hope – seeing how lovely you all are. I have a beautiful voice. Mr. Christianson was right. I’m learning where it works best, though I’ve already found some of the notes that resonate in my range. I need the confidence to sing – to find those moments where I feel filled with joy. Creating something special – whether alone or with other people. I’m hoping I get to be part of a duet at some point, though that’s never been my strength. Blending my voice with one other person’s was always difficult for me – that delicate balance between us, the give and take, forgiving the notes that are slightly off key, merging to form some sort of song.
I keep getting distracted – talking about men, past and future. I think it’s all mixed together. The core knowledge that, for me, the most exquisite music isn’t created alone. Perhaps that’s why I’m so fond of blogs – have no writing aspirations outside this format. The commenting, looking at site stats to see who’s reading – it’s a group effort, the linking and mixing of inspiration. The offers of comfort in comments or the insight written in email. It’s some kind of chorus, I think. At least in my mind. What scares me is that I have some issues figured out - I simply lack the courage to apply what I’ve learned to make some crucial changes.
In the same way, I think Mr. Christianson had the right idea years ago. He knew my range, admired my talent for what it was, saw the beauty and made some notes on where it would fit with the rest of the group. In contrast, I was shy and embarrassed that I wasn’t more conventionally pretty. Couldn’t find the courage to sparkle happily as an alto. It’s not trivial to find your range – to understand where you sound the prettiest, where your voice is most comfortable, stable and strong. Even after locating it though, I need to sing. Trust that someone will appreciate it, that I’ll find happiness in using my talents. Learn from the times where I’m slightly flat or sharp. Because I find I miss it – that rush of creating something beautiful, of being part of something greater than myself, of leaving such a group stronger than I went in.
I find it’s important to me – singing. And I’m an alto.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Beauty
“You know the best part of having my kids move out?” She asked me over dinner. I was sitting across from a woman about my mom’s age at restaurant a few weeks ago. She was visiting and I had joined her and two other older women for dinner.
In my continuing attempt to convince myself I’m not aging, I tried to identify with her 18 year old daughter, and realized I was 18 nearly a decade ago. Ten years. Ten. But I comforted myself that I was still about 15 years younger than the woman across from me, and she was actually quite pretty. Happy, I decided. Confident and comfortable –her ease with herself extended across the table and made me relax as well.
“Walking around naked.” She responded to my inquisitive look.
“Oh.” I said, trying for a blank expression and obviously failing as she started to laugh.
“Sometimes,” she confessed amidst the giggles around the table – likely at my expense – “I jump when I pass by a mirror. Think ‘who let that old woman in the house?!’ and laugh when I realize it’s me. Then I keep cleaning or go back to watch TV or whatever.”
I smiled at her, but cocked my head. “You really walk around naked?”
“Yes! I come home and the clothes come off. I’d be naked all the time if I could.”
“Oh.” I said lightly.
“Don’t you do that?” She asked, and I quickly shook my head.
“Never.” I answered honestly.
And it’s true. Even at my thinnest – when I considered myself to be quite pretty – I wore clothes. All the time. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve been sans clothing anywhere in my house outside the bathrooms. I shower but as soon as I’m dry, I wiggle back into cotton knits or linen pants or cashmere sweaters. Comfortable clothes – soft in color and texture, fitted loosely, matched with frivolous heels or color-coordinated flip flops.
I was thinking about it today as I disrobed in a dimly lit room with New Age music. I’m strangely comfortable doing so. It took me some time to find my new therapist, but I like her a great deal. A sturdy woman, she’s quite maternal and performs massages that are therapeutic yet pleasant. Having left some sessions bruised and others with lingering muscle soreness that wasn’t eased out, I’ve found that balance is difficult to find. Since moving here, I’ve tried four different people before settling on my current masseuse.
Strange, I decided, sliding under the sheet face down. I took deep breaths and shifted to get comfortable, wincing at the pain radiating from my right shoulder. I sometimes put on clothes while I’m still damp from the shower. Yet I love massages. Look forward to them as soon as I make the appointment. I’m just more comfortable in daily activities – watching television, working, cleaning, reading blogs – if I’m in t-shirts and sleepy pants. Mostly gray. Sometimes with little bleach stains or small holes from years of loving use. That’s what I notice when I happen to walk by mirrors. Frayed hems or threads hanging from seams. If I'm at work, I tug at hems to make sure the material hangs correctly. Smooth wrinkles I missed when ironing. I've never found myself wishing I was nude.
I looked across the table at the woman again. Not overly pretty in the physical sense, but somehow beautiful. I wondered if I had some of that quality myself – if some people could translate some kindness or intelligence or dignity to beauty of some sort when talking to me. And if I decide that being attractive isn’t comprised completely of my physical appearance, why am I so concerned about how I look? Even how I look to myself while home alone?
“How long have you been married?” I asked her, trying to figure this out.
“25 years. I was just out of high school.” Her lips lifted in a smile that started out as fond then eased into slightly wicked. “He loves the way I am – the way I look and laugh and talk. We do everything together – we’re still so in love.”
The tension I’d felt in trying to determine why I didn’t feel beautiful eased. It’s hard to always remind yourself. I’m personally comforted and validated by the thoughts of those people I love. So my thought is that if I were married for that long – was safe and comfortable and confident in the love of some amazing man – that I’d be exquisite. Radiant with the knowledge that someone loved me – wanted to hear me laugh so much that he remembered funny stories from work. Would read me parts of books he liked so he could discuss them with me – eager to share his knowledge and learn my thoughts. He’d call my cell phone in the middle of a dinner with 3 other women just to check in because he missed me.
Self-confidence is difficult at times. I do relatively well for a while, then falter. Find myself looking around and hoping people don’t notice me, spend extra time with make-up trying to cover freckles that someone might find adorable. Long for winter and the ability to wear heavier fabrics and cover more skin.
It’s also dangerous to tie your self-worth to another person’s vision of you. He might go away or just not happen to be around during a weak moment. The beauty – the certainty that I’m lovely and worthwhile – has to come from me. I know that.
I just thought, looking across the table and she apologized for taking a call at dinner to tell her husband she loved him, that it’d be nice to have someone who thought I was gorgeous. It might not solve my problems, but my guess is that it would help a little. But until then - if it happens at all - I'll have to remember to tell myself a bit more often.
In my continuing attempt to convince myself I’m not aging, I tried to identify with her 18 year old daughter, and realized I was 18 nearly a decade ago. Ten years. Ten. But I comforted myself that I was still about 15 years younger than the woman across from me, and she was actually quite pretty. Happy, I decided. Confident and comfortable –her ease with herself extended across the table and made me relax as well.
“Walking around naked.” She responded to my inquisitive look.
“Oh.” I said, trying for a blank expression and obviously failing as she started to laugh.
“Sometimes,” she confessed amidst the giggles around the table – likely at my expense – “I jump when I pass by a mirror. Think ‘who let that old woman in the house?!’ and laugh when I realize it’s me. Then I keep cleaning or go back to watch TV or whatever.”
I smiled at her, but cocked my head. “You really walk around naked?”
“Yes! I come home and the clothes come off. I’d be naked all the time if I could.”
“Oh.” I said lightly.
“Don’t you do that?” She asked, and I quickly shook my head.
“Never.” I answered honestly.
And it’s true. Even at my thinnest – when I considered myself to be quite pretty – I wore clothes. All the time. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve been sans clothing anywhere in my house outside the bathrooms. I shower but as soon as I’m dry, I wiggle back into cotton knits or linen pants or cashmere sweaters. Comfortable clothes – soft in color and texture, fitted loosely, matched with frivolous heels or color-coordinated flip flops.
I was thinking about it today as I disrobed in a dimly lit room with New Age music. I’m strangely comfortable doing so. It took me some time to find my new therapist, but I like her a great deal. A sturdy woman, she’s quite maternal and performs massages that are therapeutic yet pleasant. Having left some sessions bruised and others with lingering muscle soreness that wasn’t eased out, I’ve found that balance is difficult to find. Since moving here, I’ve tried four different people before settling on my current masseuse.
Strange, I decided, sliding under the sheet face down. I took deep breaths and shifted to get comfortable, wincing at the pain radiating from my right shoulder. I sometimes put on clothes while I’m still damp from the shower. Yet I love massages. Look forward to them as soon as I make the appointment. I’m just more comfortable in daily activities – watching television, working, cleaning, reading blogs – if I’m in t-shirts and sleepy pants. Mostly gray. Sometimes with little bleach stains or small holes from years of loving use. That’s what I notice when I happen to walk by mirrors. Frayed hems or threads hanging from seams. If I'm at work, I tug at hems to make sure the material hangs correctly. Smooth wrinkles I missed when ironing. I've never found myself wishing I was nude.
I looked across the table at the woman again. Not overly pretty in the physical sense, but somehow beautiful. I wondered if I had some of that quality myself – if some people could translate some kindness or intelligence or dignity to beauty of some sort when talking to me. And if I decide that being attractive isn’t comprised completely of my physical appearance, why am I so concerned about how I look? Even how I look to myself while home alone?
“How long have you been married?” I asked her, trying to figure this out.
“25 years. I was just out of high school.” Her lips lifted in a smile that started out as fond then eased into slightly wicked. “He loves the way I am – the way I look and laugh and talk. We do everything together – we’re still so in love.”
The tension I’d felt in trying to determine why I didn’t feel beautiful eased. It’s hard to always remind yourself. I’m personally comforted and validated by the thoughts of those people I love. So my thought is that if I were married for that long – was safe and comfortable and confident in the love of some amazing man – that I’d be exquisite. Radiant with the knowledge that someone loved me – wanted to hear me laugh so much that he remembered funny stories from work. Would read me parts of books he liked so he could discuss them with me – eager to share his knowledge and learn my thoughts. He’d call my cell phone in the middle of a dinner with 3 other women just to check in because he missed me.
Self-confidence is difficult at times. I do relatively well for a while, then falter. Find myself looking around and hoping people don’t notice me, spend extra time with make-up trying to cover freckles that someone might find adorable. Long for winter and the ability to wear heavier fabrics and cover more skin.
It’s also dangerous to tie your self-worth to another person’s vision of you. He might go away or just not happen to be around during a weak moment. The beauty – the certainty that I’m lovely and worthwhile – has to come from me. I know that.
I just thought, looking across the table and she apologized for taking a call at dinner to tell her husband she loved him, that it’d be nice to have someone who thought I was gorgeous. It might not solve my problems, but my guess is that it would help a little. But until then - if it happens at all - I'll have to remember to tell myself a bit more often.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Bees, paws and prancing
When I got my dog, she was in bad shape. Hoarse from whining, ears terribly infected, kennel cough and quite shy. She came out of it – several vet appointments, prescriptions and a significant amount of love and attention later, she was an amazing little puppy. About a year old, she loved other dogs and was thrilled with people as well. She’d sit at the sliding glass door in my first floor apartment and watch people go by. When I pulled in the parking lot, I’d see her ears perk and she’d leave her sunny spot at the door to meet me at the interior entrance to our rented rooms.
Living in an apartment, we took a few walks each day. Sometimes just wandering the property, others taking to the sidewalks and moving up and down the hills of our neighborhood. After building up some stamina over several weeks, we set out on Saturday morning for a couple hours. I walked, trying to burn some calories, and she explored – bounding from my side to smell trees, grass, signs – all sorts of fascinating items.
Energy waning, I started to attempt some guess at where we were. My sense of direction is shockingly bad. I get all turned around and can’t see how to get where I want to be. But I squinted across a park and realized we could cross it and end up relatively close to where we lived. I was distracted, looking around and making sure I wasn’t making some typical travel error that would culminate in my confused arrival at somewhere opposite than intended. I happened to glance back at Chienne – she had stopped to sniff some weeds at the edge of the grassy area – and saw some bees.
She yelped before I could warn or tug her away.
I hurried to her side, pulling her closer to me, determined to squash any bugs who dared injure my girl, and examined her little paw. Touching the pad gently, rubbing my fingertips across to make sure the stinger was out, I pronounced her relatively sound.
“We’ll put medicine on it when we get home.” I promised and kissed her head. “We just have to get there first.” With that, we started off, walking slowly. She was fine – barely limping, looking around at the park she hadn’t seen before. But I fretted, watching her closely, wondering if her newly-discovered allergies extended to evil bee stings. She stumbled briefly and I gasped, stopped and picked up her paw.
“You poor thing.” I crooned, kneeling in front of her and looking at her paw again. “I don’t see a stinger, sweetheart, but I know it hurts. You’re so brave and tough to deal with such a horror. I’m so sorry. I didn’t protect you – I get lost sometimes and wanted to be home because I’m tired. You’re such a good girl though – you don’t deserve to have your poor little paw hurt.” Kissing her once more on the head, I tried to urge her along.
She made it two steps before stopping, looking up at me pitifully and raising her injured paw.
Near tears, I knelt down, remained unable to find the problem – no swelling, no stinger, and picked her up and began to carry her across the park.
She weighed nearly 40 pounds at the time and I’m not in the best physical condition. I can walk around, but weight training? Not so much – now or then. So I rapidly reached my limit. We walked for maybe 2 minutes, her head resting comfortably on my shoulder while she contentedly watched the park go by.
“I can’t do it.” I told her breathlessly. “I just can’t. It’s too far! And you’re a bit heavy.”
Placing her gently on the ground, I tugged at her collar and watched with dismay while she sat and offered her paw once again. I knelt in front of her and tried to explain. I finally picked her up again and made a little progress before giving up.
“You have to walk.” I told her, trying to be firm and feeling as though I had failed my precious little friend. She just stared at me, paw in the air, until a man rounded the corner ahead with his dog. She perked up immediately, standing up and prancing toward the new arrivals. I frowned when she put weight on her paw with no ill effects, following as she pulled me along at a brisk pace, saying softly, “So it was all an act? You’ve been fine all along?”
I play pitiful a lot myself - probably taught my dog to do it that day in the park. It's suprisingly effective - I find that people in general are quite kind and in the face of distress, will attempt some help or comfort. Blogging is an excellent example. Not only does it offer an outlet for all the negative garbage that's in my head, but there's also some chance that someone will offer a story so I feel less alone, or a kind word or the hope that tomorrow things will improve. The problem is that sometimes I start to prance for no apparent reason - hurt paw forgotten in some lovely distraction. So I'm wondering, amidst all my whining that is completely sincere and filled with genuine pain at times, how much I do it in an attempt to get someone to offer to carry me across a park.
Rather manipulative when I consider it that way, and it's not a goal of mine to act that way. So I'm resolving to try a bit harder to consider my problems relative to how very lucky I am. This "poor me" mood of late is getting old. Perhaps I'm just holding up my paw when it's been relatively fine all along. Just a tiny bee sting that, while unpleasant, is hardly a reason to refuse to continue a happy little walk.
Right?
Living in an apartment, we took a few walks each day. Sometimes just wandering the property, others taking to the sidewalks and moving up and down the hills of our neighborhood. After building up some stamina over several weeks, we set out on Saturday morning for a couple hours. I walked, trying to burn some calories, and she explored – bounding from my side to smell trees, grass, signs – all sorts of fascinating items.
Energy waning, I started to attempt some guess at where we were. My sense of direction is shockingly bad. I get all turned around and can’t see how to get where I want to be. But I squinted across a park and realized we could cross it and end up relatively close to where we lived. I was distracted, looking around and making sure I wasn’t making some typical travel error that would culminate in my confused arrival at somewhere opposite than intended. I happened to glance back at Chienne – she had stopped to sniff some weeds at the edge of the grassy area – and saw some bees.
She yelped before I could warn or tug her away.
I hurried to her side, pulling her closer to me, determined to squash any bugs who dared injure my girl, and examined her little paw. Touching the pad gently, rubbing my fingertips across to make sure the stinger was out, I pronounced her relatively sound.
“We’ll put medicine on it when we get home.” I promised and kissed her head. “We just have to get there first.” With that, we started off, walking slowly. She was fine – barely limping, looking around at the park she hadn’t seen before. But I fretted, watching her closely, wondering if her newly-discovered allergies extended to evil bee stings. She stumbled briefly and I gasped, stopped and picked up her paw.“You poor thing.” I crooned, kneeling in front of her and looking at her paw again. “I don’t see a stinger, sweetheart, but I know it hurts. You’re so brave and tough to deal with such a horror. I’m so sorry. I didn’t protect you – I get lost sometimes and wanted to be home because I’m tired. You’re such a good girl though – you don’t deserve to have your poor little paw hurt.” Kissing her once more on the head, I tried to urge her along.
She made it two steps before stopping, looking up at me pitifully and raising her injured paw.
Near tears, I knelt down, remained unable to find the problem – no swelling, no stinger, and picked her up and began to carry her across the park.
She weighed nearly 40 pounds at the time and I’m not in the best physical condition. I can walk around, but weight training? Not so much – now or then. So I rapidly reached my limit. We walked for maybe 2 minutes, her head resting comfortably on my shoulder while she contentedly watched the park go by.
“I can’t do it.” I told her breathlessly. “I just can’t. It’s too far! And you’re a bit heavy.”
Placing her gently on the ground, I tugged at her collar and watched with dismay while she sat and offered her paw once again. I knelt in front of her and tried to explain. I finally picked her up again and made a little progress before giving up.
“You have to walk.” I told her, trying to be firm and feeling as though I had failed my precious little friend. She just stared at me, paw in the air, until a man rounded the corner ahead with his dog. She perked up immediately, standing up and prancing toward the new arrivals. I frowned when she put weight on her paw with no ill effects, following as she pulled me along at a brisk pace, saying softly, “So it was all an act? You’ve been fine all along?”
I play pitiful a lot myself - probably taught my dog to do it that day in the park. It's suprisingly effective - I find that people in general are quite kind and in the face of distress, will attempt some help or comfort. Blogging is an excellent example. Not only does it offer an outlet for all the negative garbage that's in my head, but there's also some chance that someone will offer a story so I feel less alone, or a kind word or the hope that tomorrow things will improve. The problem is that sometimes I start to prance for no apparent reason - hurt paw forgotten in some lovely distraction. So I'm wondering, amidst all my whining that is completely sincere and filled with genuine pain at times, how much I do it in an attempt to get someone to offer to carry me across a park.
Rather manipulative when I consider it that way, and it's not a goal of mine to act that way. So I'm resolving to try a bit harder to consider my problems relative to how very lucky I am. This "poor me" mood of late is getting old. Perhaps I'm just holding up my paw when it's been relatively fine all along. Just a tiny bee sting that, while unpleasant, is hardly a reason to refuse to continue a happy little walk.
Right?
Sunday, June 25, 2006
The State of My Manicure
We arrived at my cousin’s house yesterday and couldn’t park near the door. Her husband was cutting down a tree and limbs had fallen across the drive. He took one hand off the chainsaw to wave and we left the car up the hill and wandered toward him.
“What did the tree do wrong?” Dad asked, squinting up at what was left of it.
“It got struck by lightning, then keeps getting blown around in the storms.” Jay replied. “It just looks bad, so I decided to take it down. Cousin, Aunt and Little Cousin are at the store. They should be home soon.”
We all stood and looked at the tree. Jay raised his eyebrows at me and I shrugged.
“I think we want to help.” I suggested. “Do these limbs go somewhere?”
“I need to cut them apart first.” He said. “Then you can help. Or go inside – just hang out.”
So we stood out of the way while the remainder of the tree came down. Jay grabbed a machete and created more manageable pieces of tree. As I gathered several limbs and prepared to create a pile near where they would burn, I asked if he’d always had a gigantic knife.
“No.” He grinned. “But it’s damn cool.”
Mom, Dad and I carefully piled the leafy limbs in one section of the yard while the larger ones were cut for firewood. It was neatly stacked – big pieces on the bottom, littler ones on top – with the wood already drying for next winter. As I grew uncomfortably hot and brushed bugs, dirt and wood off my arms, I wondered at my feeling of contentment.
We work in my family – like to feel useful. It makes me more than a little uncomfortable if I’m not allowed to help clean up after dining at someone’s house. I’m good at putting leftovers away, scraping plates, washing dishes, leaving pans to soak. I’ve done it for years.
Likewise, there was no chance we’d go inside to sit while Jay dealt with moving tree pieces. We would offer advice (that’s Dad), giggle when a task goes awry (Mom and me) and pitch in to get something done.
I sometimes wonder if I present myself correctly here. It shames me to admit, but I think my years of education have made me a bit uppity. Not too much, but enough. Honestly? We’re much more casual dining than fine. Beer and soda rather than cocktails before dinner. Dad watches races while the rest of us talk. We play Pictionary, but I’m the one who’s viciously competitive, glaring and sneering, “Come on!” when someone can’t figure out that the bird-like creature is a swan, dammit. (Um, I may not be much of an artist, actually, but I do hate to lose. Someone should have guessed that one for me, and if they had, my subsequent tantrum would have been unnecessary.) We all drive relatively new cars, but they’re sensible. We know how WalMart and Target are laid out so it’s easy to find what we need. I don’t know when Brother last read a book, and though I own more books than I can adequately store, I’ll admit to a fondness for light reading rather than dense literature.
I just spent a couple hours helping Mom scrub my floors. It’s not something I do all the time, but I know how. So we talked, each of us with a sudsy sponge, and wiped baseboards then under cabinets. Listened to the sponges squeak when we rubbed quickly at splotches. Dad came to get a Pepsi and decided to mop up the mess. I’d spent time outside with him earlier. Bringing out my little ShopVac to vacuum my shamefully dirty car, then listening to a different sponge squeak as I tried to remove the bugs from my front bumper.
“If you’d do this more often,” Dad scolded as he squatted next to me and scrubbed at his section, “it wouldn’t be so hard.”
“Because they eat at your paint if you leave them too long. I know, Dad.”
For as many times as I trudged around the yard at home, picking up sticks and dragging limbs to the burn pile after storms, I also stood around our fleet of family cars while we washed them. Start with the windows, then work from the top down. That way you can rinse and the soap will slide to areas not yet washed. Never let the cars air dry either – they spot. So you get old windshield wipers or special towels to pull the water away from the paint before it dries. Look up and make sure you’re not parked under wires – no reason to make it easier to get the car dirty again.
My car is now lovely – it’s always good to have it sparkle after being neglected so long. I’m currently sprawled in a chair that could needs to be recovered and watching the light bounce off my spotless kitchen floor. My hands are a wreck – the bleach and car soap and tree limbs have certainly not left them pretty. I’m strangely proud of them – find it soothing to know that I’m capable of some labor though I often choose not to do it.
I don’t come from money, though we always had enough. I think I try to make the impression that we’re better off than we are. After all, I know certain staff at the spa where I go for massages and pedicures. Tend to stop and have my car washed rather than bringing out my bucket, sponges and hose at home. I sweep and Swiffer wet rather than crawling around my floors. I vacation on my own and with family, though the trips tend to be short and I save for them. I don't know that I could survive without my wireless internet, but my parents use a computer that's nearly 10 years old.
It may be a process for me – fitting in where I came from with where I’m trying to go. It turns out, however, that the latter might be closer to the former than I once would have thought. I'm proud of my parents - they work hard. And they've taught me how to do so as well, even to the point of having rather ugly hands.
“What did the tree do wrong?” Dad asked, squinting up at what was left of it.
“It got struck by lightning, then keeps getting blown around in the storms.” Jay replied. “It just looks bad, so I decided to take it down. Cousin, Aunt and Little Cousin are at the store. They should be home soon.”
We all stood and looked at the tree. Jay raised his eyebrows at me and I shrugged.
“I think we want to help.” I suggested. “Do these limbs go somewhere?”
“I need to cut them apart first.” He said. “Then you can help. Or go inside – just hang out.”
So we stood out of the way while the remainder of the tree came down. Jay grabbed a machete and created more manageable pieces of tree. As I gathered several limbs and prepared to create a pile near where they would burn, I asked if he’d always had a gigantic knife.
“No.” He grinned. “But it’s damn cool.”
Mom, Dad and I carefully piled the leafy limbs in one section of the yard while the larger ones were cut for firewood. It was neatly stacked – big pieces on the bottom, littler ones on top – with the wood already drying for next winter. As I grew uncomfortably hot and brushed bugs, dirt and wood off my arms, I wondered at my feeling of contentment.
We work in my family – like to feel useful. It makes me more than a little uncomfortable if I’m not allowed to help clean up after dining at someone’s house. I’m good at putting leftovers away, scraping plates, washing dishes, leaving pans to soak. I’ve done it for years.
Likewise, there was no chance we’d go inside to sit while Jay dealt with moving tree pieces. We would offer advice (that’s Dad), giggle when a task goes awry (Mom and me) and pitch in to get something done.
I sometimes wonder if I present myself correctly here. It shames me to admit, but I think my years of education have made me a bit uppity. Not too much, but enough. Honestly? We’re much more casual dining than fine. Beer and soda rather than cocktails before dinner. Dad watches races while the rest of us talk. We play Pictionary, but I’m the one who’s viciously competitive, glaring and sneering, “Come on!” when someone can’t figure out that the bird-like creature is a swan, dammit. (Um, I may not be much of an artist, actually, but I do hate to lose. Someone should have guessed that one for me, and if they had, my subsequent tantrum would have been unnecessary.) We all drive relatively new cars, but they’re sensible. We know how WalMart and Target are laid out so it’s easy to find what we need. I don’t know when Brother last read a book, and though I own more books than I can adequately store, I’ll admit to a fondness for light reading rather than dense literature.
I just spent a couple hours helping Mom scrub my floors. It’s not something I do all the time, but I know how. So we talked, each of us with a sudsy sponge, and wiped baseboards then under cabinets. Listened to the sponges squeak when we rubbed quickly at splotches. Dad came to get a Pepsi and decided to mop up the mess. I’d spent time outside with him earlier. Bringing out my little ShopVac to vacuum my shamefully dirty car, then listening to a different sponge squeak as I tried to remove the bugs from my front bumper.
“If you’d do this more often,” Dad scolded as he squatted next to me and scrubbed at his section, “it wouldn’t be so hard.”
“Because they eat at your paint if you leave them too long. I know, Dad.”
For as many times as I trudged around the yard at home, picking up sticks and dragging limbs to the burn pile after storms, I also stood around our fleet of family cars while we washed them. Start with the windows, then work from the top down. That way you can rinse and the soap will slide to areas not yet washed. Never let the cars air dry either – they spot. So you get old windshield wipers or special towels to pull the water away from the paint before it dries. Look up and make sure you’re not parked under wires – no reason to make it easier to get the car dirty again.
My car is now lovely – it’s always good to have it sparkle after being neglected so long. I’m currently sprawled in a chair that could needs to be recovered and watching the light bounce off my spotless kitchen floor. My hands are a wreck – the bleach and car soap and tree limbs have certainly not left them pretty. I’m strangely proud of them – find it soothing to know that I’m capable of some labor though I often choose not to do it.
I don’t come from money, though we always had enough. I think I try to make the impression that we’re better off than we are. After all, I know certain staff at the spa where I go for massages and pedicures. Tend to stop and have my car washed rather than bringing out my bucket, sponges and hose at home. I sweep and Swiffer wet rather than crawling around my floors. I vacation on my own and with family, though the trips tend to be short and I save for them. I don't know that I could survive without my wireless internet, but my parents use a computer that's nearly 10 years old.
It may be a process for me – fitting in where I came from with where I’m trying to go. It turns out, however, that the latter might be closer to the former than I once would have thought. I'm proud of my parents - they work hard. And they've taught me how to do so as well, even to the point of having rather ugly hands.
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